


Of Clovers and of Noon

by Byacolate, mywordsflyup



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beekeeping, Bees, Domestic Bliss, Fairytale elements, Falling In Love, Gardens & Gardening, Gratuitous Bees, M/M, Magical Nerdery, Marshmallow Adaar, Sweetheart Adaar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/pseuds/mywordsflyup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a Vashoth living practically in his backyard, and all Dorian has to do is climb the fence and follow the trail of honeybees to find him. Dorian is either living in a children's fairy story, or the opening chapter of an Antivan bodice-ripper.</p><p>  <i>or That Beekeeper AU</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The astoundingly talented 007inahauntedhouse made [this unbelievable painting](http://inunsulliedlight.tumblr.com/post/131836934889/little-tribute-painting-to-the-amazing) of Adaar's cottage that I hang forever in my heart.
> 
> And [this succinct, flawlessly accurate summation](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1En3yEORdBcQsd1dFwFT1cRTq6IxGtN_r8Jd3AnGwTrM/edit?usp=sharing) by [saltysalmonella](http://saltysalmonella.tumblr.com), which has been framed and hung over the mantle of my soul.
> 
> \+ [more precious art by saltysalmonella](http://saltysalmonella.tumblr.com/post/137968411775/my-warmup-ended-up-more-finished-than-usual-so)

Late spring finds Wildervale blessedly free of humidity. While the Free Marches are cooler than Minrathous at this time of year, they are hardly _cool_ , and Dorian finds himself wandering the villa grounds just to get out of the stuffy house. There‘s a lone elven woman and a groundskeeper hastily throwing windows open from within, but Dorian has never been known for his patience.

 

It is no one‘s fault but his own; he‘s not due to arrive at the Pavus villa for another month yet, and the servants were ill-prepared for his sudden arrival. Truth be told, he‘d expected no less.

 

The garden is in full bloom, colorful bursts against the horizon, artfully cultivated in his mother‘s design of preference. The gardener, at least, is well prepared for surprise arrivals. Dorian can appreciate the view, even though he lacks the enthusiasm and creative lust of an aging aristocrat deeply unsatisfied with her marriage.

 

He wanders at an unhurried pace, hands clasped behind his back. With a nod toward the gardener, crouched behind a nearby trellis bursting with crystal grace, Dorian makes an attempt at conversation.

 

“Lovely day, isn‘t it?” he tries, waving a hand through the air. The elderly elf quirks a brow, which encourages Dorian far more than it could discourage him. “For the flowers, I mean. I suppose it‘s rather a matter of personal taste.”

 

“It is,” the elf replies, tone as dry as his Nevarran accent. Dorian marks his acknowledgment as a success, and feels appropriately encouraged into further conversation.

 

“Thundercloud sort of gentleman, are you?”

 

“I couldn‘t say, Master Pavus.”

 

“Young Master Pavus, if you please. I‘m not my father just yet.”

 

The gardener snorts. Dorian is happy enough to chalk it up to an unfortunate malfunction of the elderly. But he is also smart enough to know when his conversational skills are not appreciated. Trying to hide the little spark of disappointment nestled in his chest, he gives the gardener a final nod before taking his leave. This is what he came here for after all, is it not? The peace and quiet, the blooming flowers and chirping birds. Surely he can't be bored out of his mind by the first day.

 

The grounds of the Pavus estate are extensive. A masterpiece of Tevinter gardening, gently sloping down the hill from behind the villa. As Dorian wanders the windy cobblestone path leading to the lower terrace, he recognizes several flowers from their own garden back in Minrathous. Waves of magenta bougainvillea and blood red geraniums. The bruised purple of Vyrantium iris sprouting along the low sandstone walls. Thinking about the effort and money it must have cost to ship these plants here is enough to stir an old annoyance in him. He's almost tempted to tear down some of blossoms just to spite his mother, but even he cannot bring himself to destroy such beauty.

 

Instead he decides to let out his frustration on the old tome he carries under one arm. With more force than necessary or appropriate for any scholar, he slams the book onto the wrought-iron table of the lower terrace and slumps down in one of the chairs next to it. Feeling guilty almost immediately, he runs two fingers along the spine, checking for cracks. He did not smuggle these books out of Cumberland’s library just to damage them now over some ridiculous flowers.

 

It is an account of the first Mortalitasi, written in Old Nevarran with descriptions gruesome enough to chill him to the bone, even in the warm light of the afternoon sun. An almost painfully slow read but Dorian savours every last horrific detail.

 

That is until a particularly big and fuzzy bee lands right on a sketch of several mummified organs.

 

A little startled, Dorian tips the book at an angle that has the bee tumbling down the pages and landing on the tabletop. It almost looks a bit offended as it shakes itself once, buzzes loudly and takes off in a languid loop. Dorian watches it land on one of the irises before returning his attention to his book again.

 

With furrowed brow he tries to find the sentence he was trying to decipher before being so rudely interrupted, but another bee plops down on the table next to him. If anything this one is even bigger than the last, its legs heavy with pollen and its too-short wings fluttering in the gentle afternoon breeze. Before he has the chance to even think about chasing it away, the bee takes off again, lazily buzzing past his ear and then vanishing in a thick bush of bougainvillea blossoms.

 

Only now does he realize that the shrub is buzzing with movement. He pushes back his chair and lets his gaze wander over the bushes and trees surrounding the terrace. There are bees everywhere. Was he really so engrossed in the finer points of Nevarran death magic that he did not notice the buzzing and bustling of bees all around him?

 

For a moment, he wonders if he should be wary, but the bees are friendly enough and clearly interested in a Tevinter export of a different kind. The geraniums seem particularly popular, as do the delicate yellow Magister’s stars. Dorian feels a certain satisfaction that at least someone is actually benefiting from his mother’s extravagance.

 

Another bee flies past his face before lazily making its way towards the edge of the garden. Over the high fence and then the tree tops of the small grove of birches beyond. There are others, a steady stream of bees making their way to and from the Pavus villa.

 

Dorian does not think overmuch about what he is doing until he climbs awkwardly over the fence and makes his way through the thick undergrowth beneath the trees, suddenly very grateful that the gardener is nowhere in sight. He does not remember what lies beyond the trees. Somewhere further down in the valley, there is a small village where most of the villa’s servants live, but Dorian has never been there himself. He might well get there within a few hours at the rate of his steady footfalls as he wanders farther and farther through the trees.

 

Perhaps twenty minutes have passed when he steps out of the shade of the trees into bright sunshine and shields his eyes against the sudden light. The grove opens up to a meadow, a soft sloping field of lavender.

 

Bees hang in the air like a mist, drifting over the lavender blossoms, or toward the estate, or further on in the direction of Dorian’s stride. Modest in size, the field could fit at least thrice over within his mother’s garden. The lavender grows wherever it may, and he has to pick his way along a faint footpath through the center with great care. Dorian wonders if it is tended at all.

 

The bees don’t seem to mind, one way or the other. A few land on the white of his robes, investigatory, but once they realize he is not a very large flowery treat, they return to their lavender.

 

He presses on in pursuit of the buzzing trail where it flies with purpose from the lavender field back into the trees. The path he finds here is far more worn; Dorian hasn’t walked for three minutes before he spots several curious shapes in another clearing.

 

Beehives. Of course. He clicks his tongue, carefully considering the structures from a distance. Whatever these hives are meant for, it is a humble operation at best. Dorian can see no more than five; he cannot in good conscience assume that their keeper has been using their proximity to the Pavus estate for commercial gain.

 

Still, it is a curiosity. He cannot have wandered for more than half an hour to find this place. It seems such a pedestrian hobby, a reality he has known only in passing - rather more like fiction - so close to his father’s austere villa.

 

Movement from behind a tree catches Dorian’s attention out of the corner of his eye and he turns sharply to find the shape of a person rising from behind a hive. And rising. And rising. Caution flickers in the back of Dorian’s mind at the shape of horns jutting out from the stranger’s great head. Dorian has to wonder if the beekeeper knows they have a qunari in their hives.

 

He almost thinks to ask, but reconsiders as the thought strikes him that he so foolishly left his staff in the villa. While Dorian is rather adept without one, it would hardly be a wise course of action to prod an unknown entity into hostility with only his wits and hands about him.

 

A matter to ponder on his quick retreat home, he decides, and takes a step back before he is spotted among the grove.

 

On his very next step, his shoulder collides with a nearby tree. Unbalanced, Dorian grasps for purchase, finding a fistful of ivy as he rights himself. As soon as he is able, he releases the crushed leaves with haste and glances up to see if his stumble has caught attention.

 

The qunari lifts his hand against the bright sunlight as he stares directly at Dorian.

 

Well. If it’s to be a confrontation, Dorian has only himself to blame for his lack of stealth. Still, surely he might be able to resolve any mounting tension with a quick bit of wit, some fast thinking -

 

“Good afternoon,” calls the qunari, lifting his hand higher in greeting. Dorian runs a hand through his hair, combing out a few rough bits of debris. Nothing for it, now that he’s been spotted. He moves forward into the clearing with careful deliberation, poised in such a way that even the bees might think him untouchable.

 

“You know, you’re the first to agree with me on that today,” he says, stopping at a distance from the nearest hive, and the nearest person that might happily squish his face to bits like a particularly handsome grape. “Some people don’t care for sunshine and light spring breezes. What a world we live in.”

 

The answer comes after a pause and accompanied by a wistful smile. “What a shame. We don't get many days like it this time of year.” The qunari carefully brushes aside a bee that seems determined to make itself comfortable on his eyebrow. It’s a slow and gentle movement and the bee soon flies off to find a sweeter place among the flowers.

 

Despite himself, Dorian steps closer, circling around the first hive. “I take it these are your bees?” He would not think a honey thief to be this calm around his mark. The qunari moves with the ease of someone who belongs.

 

“They are.” There is a hint of pride in his voice, as though he speaks of a batch of well-learned children, or successful apprentices. “I hope they did not sting you?”

 

“Fortunately, they were far more interested in my mother’s flowers than they were in me. I would question their taste but in this instance I shall endeavor not to be offended.”

 

The qunari cocks his head, a questioning expression on his face. “Tevinter?”

 

“What gave me away? The robes? The accent? Or was it the ominous scent of blood magic we carry wherever we go?”

 

“I meant the flowers. Are they Tevinter?”

 

“Oh.” For a moment, Dorian feels sheepish. “Yes. My mother thought it necessary import them last year. Because why experience anything new or foreign if you could just as well waste money and manpower on bringing a piece of Tevinter with you wherever you go? That’s a real sense of adventure for you.”

 

It is an awfully honest response to make to someone he has only just met but there is something oddly calming about this stranger. The bees seem to feel it as well, since they are not bothered in the slightest by their presence to close to the hives.

 

The qunari smiles. “That explains a lot,” he says. “I could not be sure, but the taste was different.” He must have seen Dorian’s confusion because he quickly adds, “Of the honey, I mean.”

 

“Of course.” Dorian should tamp down the flirtation curling in his tone, too familiar by far with this stranger he‘s met in the forest. The ease with which it falls from his tongue is a burden and a curse indeed. “The honey. A connoisseur, are you?”

 

“Something like that,” he says, looking at Dorian like they might be sharing in a joke. Dorian doesn‘t get it, until he does.

 

“Ah, yes, the infamous heightened senses of the qunari. I confess, I‘ve only ever heard tales of your sense of smell - the collective _your_ , you understand.”

 

His new acquaintance looks farther from offense than any qunari Dorian has ever met. If anything, he looks close to laughter. “So I‘m told,” he says.  “They‘re the only senses I‘ve ever known.”

 

“Yes, you‘ve nothing with which to compare, and I feel foolish for having brought it up.”

 

The qunari does laugh then, a brief, low thing that he brushes away with the back of his hand. He wipes both hands on his trousers and inclines his head. “We‘re neighbors then. If you aren‘t in a hurry, perhaps you‘d like some tea.”

 

“Oh, well.” Dorian can‘t think of a reason to object, either to the beekeeper or to himself. None that aren‘t steeped in Tevinter-typical classism and a healthy dose of racism. He likes to think himself above such things, whether or not that thought is true. “I suppose it‘s preferable to pestering the gardener like an errant child. For him, at least. Lead the way.”

 

 

* * *

 

His name is Adaar, and his house is smaller than Dorian‘s closet in Qarinus.

 

The kitchen is cluttered with honey jars and beeswax candles, a table fit for two at most but stuffed below with four chairs that only match three. Dorian collides with one of them, and the edge of the counter, but Adaar navigates the crowded room with ease. He prepares the tea like his colossal shoulders mightn‘t send the shelves upon shelves of empty honey jars crashing to the floor at any moment.

 

Bundles of dried herbs hang from the ceiling and the windows are only crudely freed from the five finger ivy that covers the house’s facade and threatens to invade the kitchen. Dust dances in the slanted beams of the afternoon sun. It smells of spices and fresh bread and, most importantly, honey. Dorian has never been to a place like this but he has read of them - mostly in children’s books. Although those stories usually also included an old weathered woman, a bubbling cauldron and several toads.

 

There were no old women or cauldrons here. Just a ridiculously tall qunari with a teapot in his hands and a friendly smile on his face.

 

“Do you take your tea with honey?”

 

“I feel it would be impolite to say no in this instance.” Dorian’s eyes wander over the stuffed shelves behind Adaar, weighted down with tight-capped jars of amber. “And also perhaps a wasted opportunity.”

 

He watches Adaar putting down the teapot on table and covering its belly with his large hands. He tries not to stare at his rolled up sleeves and the thick arms exposed underneath. But when he hears the water inside the pot starting to boil he cannot tear his eyes away. There is a ripple in the air, a gentle tug at the veil as Adaar calls heat in between his fingers.

 

“You're a mage,” Dorian says, a little more surprised than would be courteous.

 

Adaar looks up and smiles in a way that makes Dorian think he might be used to this reaction. “I am.”

 

Steam rises from the spout and the smell of spices grows stronger. It is a mixture Dorian faintly recognizes from the Tal Vashoth who sell street food in the alleys and markets of Minrathous. Grilled seafood and chestnuts, a thick stew of peppers and dark meat, and, most importantly, hot black caffea, strong enough to stir even the most exhausted apprentices on their way to the Circle Tower. Dorian is familiar with the cuisine of the qunari - or at least with what the exiled present as such. He just never expected to find traces of it in tiny cluttered kitchen in the Free Marches.

 

“Where did you study?” Dorian asks as Adaar pulls two mugs and a big jar of honey from a cupboard. It is the usual question, and one that Dorian has asked and answered a thousand times himself. Normally it is followed by a monologue that consists mostly of dropping names and bragging. Lists of schools and renowned Circles. Teachers, scholars and Magisters of note. From Adaar, he gets nothing but a shrug and a small smile.

 

“Nowhere. My parents taught me.”

 

“Learned mages, your parents?”

 

Adaar lifts two generous spoonfuls and stirs them into each teacup, one after the next. “Not exactly.”

 

“What, no proper magical education among the Tal-Vashoth?”

 

Dorian is offered his tea with a smile but no saucer. A pattern of nugs prance around the rim. “No proper magical education among the Qunari.”

 

“I see.” He’s misspoken again, but Adaar appears to take no insult. There is an oven carved into the wall, and from it he retrieves a slab of metal with his bare hands - glowing blue with perpetual frost - and sets his freshly baked treats on the window to cool. It smells divine, but Dorian is yet above pestering his host for treats.

 

“They did what they could, when my abilities manifested,” Adaar says simply. There are indelicate questions on Dorian’s tongue regarding aspects of Qunari culture best left unharried, but he manages to dismiss all of them. Nearly.

 

“I suppose one of your parents must have been... what was it... _Saarebas_.”

 

“No,” Adaar says, pouring milk into his tea until it rises to the rim, a creamy brown. He taps his fingers, ice cold, against the side of his teacup until the steam ceases to drift from within, and the cup is coated in frost. He slides the pitcher of milk across the table toward Dorian in invitation. He has dimples when he smiles just so, and Dorian can’t remember ever being so pleased not to offend. “They didn’t know what to do with one for a son, either.”

 

“I can only imagine,” Dorian tells him truthfully. Then, “It seems to serve you well enough.”

 

“It does,” Adaar agrees, sipping his cold tea. Dorian wonders what his expression might show if he told Adaar his own magic was quite proficient in raising the dead.

 

“I myself prefer a bit of a show. Flagrant displays of power. Barrages of fire, cages of lightning, raised corpses, and the like.”

 

“Flashy,” Adaar nods, smiling against the rim of his teacup.

 

“It’s not a real show unless you can convince the corpse to sing. Ghastly business, an unrefined death serenade.”

 

“I can only imagine,” Adaar parrots, much to Dorian’s delight. There must be more to the story of two Qunari raising a mage out of Par Vollen, but Dorian is not entirely without tact.

 

Instead he taps his finger against his own teacup, imitating the way Adaar has pulled frost towards his. It’s a simple and elegant trick that requires both the porcelain and the liquid to be cooled at the same time and speed to keep the cup from cracking.

 

“I take it you use magic in your work with the bees as well?” He remembers the calm behavior of the bees at the hives. “A peaceful aura and such?”

 

“Among others.” There are those dimples again. “Most of it is still manual labor. But it helps.”

 

Dorian thinks about the book he left on the lower terrace. Ancient secrets about life and death seem strangely inconsequential in their extravagance next to a man who uses his gifts to cool tea and calm bees.

 

“If you were interested, I could show you sometime,” Adaar says and just like that there is a promise of a next time mingling with the smell of honey and spices in the air. It feels simple and easy and unlike any social interaction Dorian is used to.

 

He takes a sip of his tea then, partly to hide the smile that is tugging at his lips. The spices are familiar but underneath he tastes the honey, sweet and rich.

 

“So this is the honey that came from my mother’s flowers?” he asks and Adaar nods with a little smile. “All things considered, I would have expected it to be far more bitter.” Who would have thought that his mother’s obsessive need for grandeur could lead to something so sweet?

 

“The difference to before is very subtle,” Adaar admits. “It’s just a little bit darker now. More… buttery.” He keeps the smile but there is just the faintest hint of color in his cheeks. Almost like he's embarrassed.

 

“I wouldn't be able to tell,” Dorian says. "Not without those superior senses of yours.” There is something dangerously close to flirtation in his tone and again and once more he hides his smile behind his cup as he takes another sip.

 

A gentle spring breeze drifts through the open window, bringing with it the sweet scent of thyme and rosemary, nudging Adaar into action. He leaves his tea behind to pull the cooling pastries from the window to the table.

 

“What’s this,” Dorian says, sitting up a little straighter.

 

“Lunch,” Adaar says, fetching a small collection of mismatched cutlery as well. “If you’d like some.”

 

“You were hardly prepared for visitors,” Dorian protests when a fork and knife are placed before him. “I wouldn’t expect you to feed me after I’ve trespassed on your territory. I’ve known people who would kill for less. And you can take that as literally as you’d like.”

 

“I’m always prepared for visitors,” Adaar tells him, pushing one of the pastries toward Dorian with a fork. “And if I have none, I’m well prepared for my next meal. But these are best eaten warm, so please help yourself.”

 

Dorian eyes the richly-scented pies before him. They look innocent enough, egg or perhaps custard, generously seasoned with those ceiling herbs, cupped within a golden crust the size of Dorian’s palm.

 

“This doesn’t look particularly qunari,” he says, carefully dissecting one closest to him. Definitely egg then, and stuffed with something deeply green. A life spent at the center of the deadly machinations of the Imperium’s magisterium has taught him nothing, apparently, for he takes a bite of strange food a strange man has offered to him in his strange house with very little resistance at all.

 

“It’s a Free Marcher recipe,” Adaar confirms, but Dorian is only half listening. It’s simple, but divine. The crust is flaky perfection, the egg is rich, and the flavor of the vegetable is so robust it will undoubtedly remain with him all evening long.

 

Before he knows what he’s doing, the entire pastry is gone. Dorian stares at the spot where it once had been, and then looks up to find Adaar watching him with no small amount of amusement.

 

“A… Free Marcher recipe, you say?”

 

Adaar’s laughter comes again, though he ducks his head, dimples gone from Dorian’s vision. “I suppose it depends on who you ask,” he says a quick moment later, thick fingers light on the rim of his cup. “A Fereldan would claim it Fereldan.”

 

“And spit on the ground should you disagree, I imagine.” Dorian is very valiantly not staring at the remaining pastries. Adaar, apparently, is not fooled for a second, and he pushes another in Dorian’s direction.

 

The second one tastes just as good as the first, if not better for the simple fact that Dorian forces himself to savour every last bite. He can feel Adaar’s eyes on him. The expression on his face is one of someone whose food is appropriately appreciated - though whether he's pleased with Dorian or himself or the food on the table, he cannot say.

 

After he is finished, Dorian keeps himself from picking up the last crumbs with his finger and pushes the plate from him instead.

 

“Admit it,” he says and puts one hand on his stomach. “You used some quaint domestic magic to make these as well, yes? I promise your secret will be safe with me.”

 

Adaar laughs, picks up the dishes and hefts himself up to put them into the sink. “No magic this time, I’m afraid.” He pours Dorian another cup of tea which he gratefully accepts. “Just a good recipe and years of trial and error when it comes to the crust.”

 

“And here I thought you were going to tell me that the secret ingredient was a pinch of love.”

 

“I thought that went without saying.” A different man might have delivered the line with a wink or at least a smirk. Adaar says it with clear eyes and more dimples, a sight that makes Dorian glad he has a tea cup to focus on or he might have found himself going warm around the edges.

 

A small handful of hours pass entirely without Dorian’s awareness, in between magical theory two pots of tea.

 

He should return home, and he’s finding it difficult to scrape together the will for it. But the sun will be descending soon, and while Dorian could navigate these strange woods in the dark, he’d really rather not.

 

Still, he finishes his tea first, spices warming his tongue, and when he stands Adaar stands with him. “I think I’ll take my leave, lest the servants think the locals have taken me hostage.”

 

“They might,” Adaar says, leading him graciously outside.

 

“It wouldn’t be the worst idea. You wouldn’t believe ransom I could fetch.”

 

While he isn’t keen on picking his way back through the woods, he declines Adaar’s offer to walk him home on more public paths. There’s a dash more pride to be maintained foraging boldly into the forest than allowing a heretofore complete stranger to entertain him, feed him, and chaperon his walk home.

 

“Safe journey,” Adaar says, sending him off from the edge of his lavender field. Dorian is mostly certain Adaar can still see his winning smile in the light of the dying sun.

 

“Now,” he says, lifting a hand in parting, “where’s the fun in that?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have mentioned this from the start, but as for the setting of this fic, it's canon Thedas with a few tweaks - mainly that Adaar became a beekeeper and not a mercenary, and newly-qualified Enchanter Dorian of the Circle of Minrathous ran away for a little r&r after fulfilling Too Many Expectations rather than escaping a blood ritual. Probably vaguely written about 9:34-9:36 Dragon (5-7 years or thereabouts before the explosion at the Conclave, and the events of Inquisition). Assume that mages aren't aren't treated AS drastically as they are in canon, for any number of reasons. Also, ensemble cast, because reasons. -B

One afternoon at Adaar’s cluttered place and the villa suddenly feels too large and empty to him. Pavus estates are all bright marble and clear lines and open spaces. And all of the sudden, Dorian feels disproportionately small when he walks the long hallways.

 

At his insistence, the housekeeper has hired additional help from the village. He could always send word to Minrathous to send for the usual servants to come a bit earlier, but that would undoubtedly alert his parents to his change in summer plans and he's not quite ready to give up his freedom just yet.

 

Even with more people bustling about, the place feels empty. He has walked the grounds in their entirety more times than he can count and even scoured his father’s library in search of something at least halfway decent and readable. The books he took from the Grand Library in Cumberland have lost their appeal to him for now. For some reason, is does not feel right to sink himself into tomes about the dead while surrounded by sunshine and flowers and bees.

 

They are everywhere, and now that Dorian knows about them he cannot stop noticing the buzzing all around him. It’s a pleasant sound, reminding him of spices and pastries and an unlikely set of dimples.

 

One of the new girls is tasked with cleaning the large windows in the parlour and is struggling with opening them as Dorian passes. He recognizes the problem immediately. Several bees have found their way inside and are now helplessly bumping and crawling against the window pane in the attempts to get back to the garden. He stops to help and it earns him half a smile and a curt nod from the servant girl.

 

“Thank you, messere,” she says, her Marcher accent thick and still strange to Dorian’s ears. “The beekeeper wouldn't've looked kindly on us trapping his charges.”

 

Dorian who has already turned to take his leave, stops dead in his tracks. “You know the beekeeper?”

 

She laughs, no more than a soft chuckle. “Got a qunari squeezed in a cottage with a million bees on the outskirts of town. Everybody knows the beekeeper.”

 

Dorian’s right eyebrow tics in such a way that has her laughing before she can pretend it was a cough. “In a fashion, messere, but not that one. He’s a household name ‘round here. Couldn’t tell you why if you asked him, though. He just keeps to himself with his bees and his cottage. Got a runner boy for the honey and a delivery girl for his supplies and everything.”

 

“Now that you mention it, he did seem somewhat reclusive.”

 

“Oh, nothing like that,” she says, waving the notion from the air. “Comes to town often enough, with his wares and without. The kids love him - he’s got those arms that’ll swing two of ‘em right up into the air. All them candles and that honey… shame about the horns bit. A doting mother would’ve had him for ‘er daughter years ago if not for them.”

 

“Yes, what’s common decency and a charming livelihood compared to a pair of horns.”

 

The serving girl gives him an odd look before she smiles again. It lights upon her face, quick and mischievous.

 

“Fit, isn’t he?”

 

“Quite the gossip, you are,” Dorian says, a little tut-tut in his tone. “Talking about your little town’s sweetheart, and his child-swinging arms.”

 

“Didn’t call him charming, though, did I,” she says, rather cheekily for the help.

 

“And decent. And likely to hide away should he come to find out about all this talk of his musculature behind his back.”

 

She sighs, “Almost forgot about his back,” and Dorian knows it’s time to retreat.

 

Her talk of town has lit a curiosity inside him, though, and Dorian wanders back to his room for a suitable pair of shoes for strolling.

 

When he comes back out, the servant girl is gone, perhaps to look for more windows to clean or to find a more private place to think about Adaar’s assets. The new cook, an older woman with no time or patience for anything but simple and hearty Marcher cuisine, is just as happy to tell him the fastest and easiest way into town. Dorian is almost a bit disappointed to learn that is does not lead past Adaar’s cottage but a little bit further east right past the little forest of birches.

 

The day is just as warm and sunny as almost all the days since his arrival and Dorian finds he actually enjoys the walk. After a while he cannot see the estate any longer when he looks back, the villa perfectly hidden behind tall trees and the slope of the hill. A few moments later the path ends and is replaced by a field of low cut grass and rows after rows of short trees in full bloom. An apple orchard, Dorian realizes as he walks through the sea of pale pink blossoms. The air is full of their scent and the buzzing of Adaar’s bees. 

 

The village is easy enough to find after that. Dorian crosses a small stream before following its course further down the hill. Soon he spots the first dark slate roofs and quickens his step.

 

It’s a small village but it looks like something out of the picture books he used to read as a child. Cobblestone streets and half-timber houses with window-boxes overflowing with colorful flowers. Dorian follows the broad main road into the heart of the village until he reaches a large marketplace with a stone fountain in the center. A group of children has claimed the fountain as their playground, splashing and squealing with delight.

 

In Orlais, townships as quaint as this tend to be carefully cultivated to appear so picturesque. How the Free Marches have managed it so effortlessly, Dorian could not say, but he’d be delighted to see it take the wind out of Orlais’ sails.

 

There’s no denying that he’s being scrutinized very closely from each little shop window and passerby. Although, perhaps that’s unfair; _scrutiny_ is reserved for a suspicious lot, and this one seems curious at worst. A pair of children whisper to each other behind sticky hands when he pauses by a baker’s open window, and another stumbles to his mother’s skirts. Dorian can hardly take offense when he’s spent so long crafting his veneer of aristocracy and arrogance. Should anybody ask, the ability to send a small child running at a glance has been his goal all along. A talent, truly.

 

The baker is not so easily intimidated. An older woman, around his mother’s age and three times her girth, calls him handsome and still makes him pay full price for a loaf of honey bread he’d never intended to buy in the first place.

 

A tailor, who happens to meet Dorian’s eyes as he strolls by the shop’s open door, takes one look at Dorian’s attire and clicks his tongue. Refreshingly, he does not simper as the tailors in Minrathous do at the sight of the Pavus house crest, but instead he languishes quite openly about the quality and material of Dorian’s robes. His receptionist appears to be far more business-minded as he hastens to his partner’s side to appraise Dorian’s outfit himself. They bicker amongst themselves for a moment about taste and finery and dragon parts, their eyes ever on him. He knows appreciation of a keener sort when he feels it, so he allows himself just a pinch of swagger as he walks away.

 

The honey bread is good, Dorian finds as he ducks into a spot of shade between shops. It is also quite large for one man, and without a persuasive companion to encourage him to finish, he passes the rest to a small group of children tossing crumbs to fat grey birds.

 

As he leaves the square behind, the laughter of the children follows him, mingled pleasantly with the burble of the fountain. The little, bustling alley he strolls down is quieter but no less charming, framed by black and white houses only interrupted with bursts of colorful flowers. He stops in front of a small shop. He almost misses it, tucked away between two larger houses. With buckets of flowers out front and a wild collection of assorted goods in the windows, Dorian is not quite certain what the shop is trying to sell. The only reason he stops at all is the tray of familiar honey jars placed on a chair next to the front door.

 

He steps closer but there is no mistaking them, oddly bulbous as they are, with carefully handwritten labels on the side. It seems silly to enter the shop just because of this, but just as he followed the bees, he lets his feet decide for him.

 

The shop is small but bright and friendly. Dorian privately corrects his earlier query: What _doesn’t_ this shop sell? The shelves are lined with all sorts of knickknacks, ranging from carved candles to delicate animals made out of blown glass. There are gently jingling wind chimes and tall wooden statuettes with distinct Rivaini features. Children’s toys are displayed next to jewelry, expensive-looking stationery next to cheap Nevarran charms. And up on the counter, another tray with Adaar’s honey.

 

At the sound of his entrance, a woman steps behind the counter through a door leading to some manner of backroom. She is strikingly beautiful, with dark curls falling loosely over her shoulders and a sharp aqualine nose. She lays an armful of long-stemmed flowers down on the counter and gifts him with a bright smile.

 

“Welcome,” she says, her voice a melody and accented Antivan. “What can I help you with?”

 

Dorian wanders over to the counter, his fingers automatically reaching for one of the honey jars. It feels silly but he cannot help himself. There is a crude drawing of a bee next to Adaar’s name on the label and Dorian feels a twinge of affection in his chest.

 

“Just passing through,” Dorian says, pulling his hand away. It would hardly be proper to confess he’d entered for the allure of honey jars. “Consider me no more than a breeze.”

 

The shopkeeper smooths a curl behind her ear and gestures toward the shop. “You are welcome to browse at your leisure.”

 

“I would not browse any other way.”

 

She smiles beatifically, but her eyes are keen in a familiar way that tells him she’s hardly ignorant to his tone. Dorian taps a finger on the counter, his rings clinking with every twitch. “I daresay I could the assumption that you aren’t a local, either.”

 

“You could,” she says, pulling out a pair of shears from below the counter. With practiced ease, she clips the flower stems to a respectable length, hands and eyes busy. “Did my accent give me away?”

 

“Among other things,” Dorian says. She dresses simply, but well, and there is a sheen about her hair that speaks of meticulous care. Soaps and oils of decent calibre should be a luxury indeed in this hidden corner of Thedas.

 

“And you,” she says, bright eyes flickering up to meet his, “must be Lord Pavus.”

 

“Young Lord Pavus,” he corrects reflexively, “and I won’t insult you by asking what gave it away.”

 

Her smile is no warmer, but in some way more genuine when she says, “Word spreads quickly here. The Pavus villa coming to life with its mysterious heir after so long empty is very exciting.”

 

“What a romantic way to say the locals can’t keep their tongues from wagging about the Tevinter on the hill.”

 

“The gossip would lead one to believe you were quite romantic indeed,” she says with an admirable air of diplomacy.

 

“That sounds like worthy gossip indeed. I do love hearing about myself.”

 

“A young lord travels alone to Wildervale, quite without warning or fanfare,” she says, gathering the flowers up and arranging them neatly in a blown glass vase. “What is there to do but speculate upon his arrival.”

 

“What indeed.”

 

She adjusts on of the flowers in the vase, plucking a dried brown petal.

 

“I can only recommend it, you know.”

 

Dorian furrows his brow, momentarily thrown by the break in the smooth conversation. “Pardon?”

 

She nods towards the tray on the counter, the innocence on her face almost calculated. “The honey. It’s a local specialty. You will not find one finer in all of the Free Marches, I’d wager.”

 

Dorian thinks he spots a knowing glint in her eyes and were he more inexperienced at this game, he might have squirmed. Instead he turns to a display of necklaces, on the counter buying himself a few seconds before responding.

 

“I take it Antiva is not included in that wager?”

 

Her smile is coy but her eyes stay sharp. “Oh, it is difficult to say. There are so many things to consider. The right flowers, the right colony of bees…” She gaze falls on something behind him and her smile widens. “The right beekeeper.”

 

There is a soft jingle of the wind chimes as the door to the shop opens and Dorian can feel his stomach drop. He shouldn't be surprised. In a village like this, the unlikely does not seem so impossible, somehow.

 

Adaar is just as tall and broad as he remembers. Perhaps more so in comparison to the tiny shop and its delicate wares. He moves around the displays with the same casual ease he showed in his own house, carrying a large basket filled with honey jars and a bundle of cut lavender in his arms.

 

“Good afternoon, Josephine. I…” He stops when his eyes fall on Dorian, the startled expression on his face immediately replaced by a warm smile. “Hello again. This is quite the surprise.”

 

“I’m afraid I’ve given up on surprise as a concept,” Dorian says, drawing himself up to his full height before lounging back against the counter, folding his arms with practiced ease. “It can be something of a crux, back home. Everything’s calculated, you see. Preordained.”

 

“You foresaw his arrival, young Master Pavus?” Josephine says behind him, her tone the very picture of innocence.

 

"It hardly matters, so long as you believe I did.”

 

Adaar nears until he is stands beside Dorian, laying his goods over the counter. The scent of lavender is as strong as it is soothing, this close. “It’s a pleasant surprise nonetheless.”

 

“Naturally,” Dorian says, most certainly not moved when Adaar’s elbow brushes his. He can think to say no more, so it is fortunate Josephine intervenes. She compliments him on his sweet amber bounty and demures at the gift of lavender, but to Dorian’s ear, it is hardly flirtatious. He isn’t listening for flirtation, mind - the observation is an idle one and nothing more.

 

It feels odd, though, standing quietly while the two conduct their pleasantries. Dorian accompanies neither, not truly, and it dawns on him rather quickly that in this moment he’s nothing more than an eavesdropping loiterer. It wouldn’t do to leave so abruptly without making a purchase, but honey is the only thing that kindles his interest. Even still, he isn’t so heavy-handed as to buy any while the supplier stands at his elbow. Not after sitting in his kitchen and staring at his dimples in the light of the setting sun.

 

Of course, he is _not_ staring at the very same dimples when the mention of his name pulls him out of his thought.

 

“I was just telling young Master Pavus here about the prestige of your product, Adaar,” Josephine says and the look she gives Dorian is positively mischievous. “But something tells me he already is quite familiar with the taste.”

 

Despite himself, Dorian feels heat creep up the back of his neck then, despite all his years of navigating the treacherous waters of Tevinter’s social circles. Adaar turns to him, the expression on his face dangerously close to concern.

 

“I hope you weren't considering buying any. No neighbor of mine should have to pay for this.” He pulls a jar from the basket and hands it to Dorian who takes it without thinking. “Especially not if my bees availed themselves of your flowers so liberally.”

 

“My mother’s flowers,” Dorian corrects but the jar is already in his hands and putting it back would seem like an even greater insult now.

 

He’s certain, at least, that Adaar can’t tell that he’s floundering. Josephine is yet a mystery, but Dorian would like to think his innermost thoughts are unreadable to an ambiguously noble Antivan as well.

 

“Your mother is welcome to my honey as well.”

 

“She won’t thank you for it.”

 

“She doesn’t need to.”

 

“In any case,” Josephine intervenes as it dawns on Dorian that _he_ has not thanked Adaar, either, “I’m afraid I was just on my way out the door when the young lord arrived.”

 

“Sorry to have kept you,” Adaar begins, and Dorian himself straightens as Josephine tuts him.

 

“Do not be silly. I regret we haven’t a moment for tea today. Tomorrow, however, if you are free… and Lord Pavus, of course - ah, young Lord Pavus - is more than welcome to join us.”

 

Dorian is, at the very least, used to invitations.

 

“I’m honored! And I assume tea is code for top shelf Antivan brandy. Unearthed from the crypt of one of your ancestors, if you please. I like to day drink with a personal flair.”

 

Josephine recovers quickly from her abject shock when Adaar presses the back of his hand to his mouth and turns away, shoulders trembling. “Oh! You are not serious.”

 

“Whatever do you mean?” Dorian says, all innocence, and Adaar backs away from the counter with the briefest touch to Dorian’s elbow.

 

“Tomorrow, Josephine. I’ll bring something to eat.”

 

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” she says, one last knowing smile on her lips as she watches them leave the store.

 

Dorian finds himself being led out onto the street - not so much by touch as by a feeling as natural as the afternoon sunlight on his face. It is only when they are outside that he starts to feel awkward, the jar of honey still in his hands. Surely Adaar has other things to do. But Dorian finds it difficult to take his leave without seeming impolite.

 

But Adaar takes the question out of his mouth with the faintest of smiles. “Do you have other business in the village?” he asks, inclining his head just so. “I could show you around if you’d like.”

 

Dorian shakes his head. He is sure that the offer is sincere but he feels the twinge of guilt unfamiliar to those born rich and idle. He is aware that while he is technically on holiday, everyone else around him still has to work to earn their sup. He isn't of a mind to gawk at them while they do. “As charming as the village is,” he says, “I think I've seen enough for one day.”

 

“If that is the case, perhaps you will allow me to accompany you back up the hill?” Another sincere offer, and this time one he gladly accepts.

 

They take a different route from the village than the one Dorian took on his way down. Adaar leads them through alleys and then open streets with the easy stride of a local. He walks with purpose but slow enough for Dorian to keep up. From time to time, Adaar points out a specific points of interest. A house of historic significance or an old tree tied to local legends.

 

Every person they meet on their way greets Adaar like an old friend. They regard Dorian by his side with curiosity rather than suspicion, a feeling that is still unfamiliar enough for him to notice.

 

“My, look at them simper. One would think you're well liked,” he says, eyeing a small gaggle of children waving from a schoolhouse window. It is not a question.

 

There are no dimples when Adaar's lips quirk this time and something close to wistfulness flashes across his face before he ducks his head. “They make it easy.”

 

Dorian thinks about what the servant girl told him. About swinging kids and doting mothers. And about horns. There are more observations to be made here, and questions that are perhaps not his to ask.

 

“It seems to me that you are the one making it easy,” he says and it is scandalously honest and earns him a warmer smile. Dimples and all.

 

They leave the village with its houses and people behind and cross the stream at a low wooden bridge that groans disconcertingly underneath their weight. After that it is nothing but a steep incline and a path visible only to Adaar. After just a few steps, Dorian understands why the cook recommended he take a different way down to the village. It is a treacherous terrain, even with the sound of songbirds in the distance and lovely wildflowers growing up to their knees.

 

There is a large step just underneath the treeline up ahead, a dark vein of rugged splintered slate sticking out of the ground. Adaar climbs it without difficulty but when Dorian hesitates, he offers him a hand. Just a heartbeat of hesitation before he takes it, Adaar’s skin warm and calloused underneath his own. Adaar pulls him up with ease and Dorian hardly has time to brace himself before his finds himself standing very close to a broad chest and a handsome face smiling down at him.

 

From this close he can see the constellation of freckles running across Adaar’s nose and cheeks and surely that sight alone shouldn’t make Dorian’s heart perk up and take note. He mutters his thanks and steps around, hugging the jar of honey close to his chest.

 

After that, the way gets easier as they follow a well-trodden path over soft forest ground. Adaar does not say much, obviously used to the quiet of a solitary life, and Dorian feels almost tongue-tied in the face of so much comfortable silence. A sensation so unfamiliar to him that he can feel the unspoken words crawling underneath his skin like ants.

He opens his mouth to complain about it when Adaar breaks the silence himself. “Will you come tomorrow?”

 

“Pardon?” Dorian says, taken somewhat by surprise.

 

“Josephine‘s invitation.”

 

“Ah,” says Dorian. “That. Most graciously given, but she seems too gracious a woman. I would not intrude - no, I can see that look on your face, don‘t protest. I‘d not be so gauche as to third wheel my way into your friendly luncheon.”

 

Adaar looks somewhat crestfallen, emotions too plain upon his face for Dorian‘s comfort. He finds himself patting one thick arm in consolation. “Now now. Never you mind about me. I didn‘t come all the way out here to ingratiate myself into new social circles.”

 

“As you say,” Adaar says, looking no less downhearted for it. His expression smooths quickly enough when they round an enormous tree planted in the center of the path. “Would it change your mind if _I_ invited you along?”

 

Dorian laughs. “You think to spare my pride!”

 

“I’d like to have you there,” Adaar confesses, as though it weren’t obvious. “But if you don’t want to - if you’re busy -”

 

“Is it normally just the two of you at these quaint rendezvous?”

 

“Only very rarely. The community here is a close one.”

 

“Then perhaps someday I will have to drop in.”

 

“I hope so.” The disappointment is still visible in Adaar’s face but he hides it valiantly behind a smile. Dorian feels a tiny twinge of guilt. Contrary to his father's opinion, he does not enjoy disappointing those around him. Especially not those who look at him with kind hopeful eyes.

 

They cover the rest of the distance in silence, albeit not an uncomfortable one, until the roof of Adaar’s cottage becomes visible through the trees. When Adaar offers him another cup of tea, Dorian passes politely but promises to visit again soon.

 

“We are neighbors after all,” he says and the smile on Adaar’s face is worth even the most arduous walk up the hill.


	3. Chapter 3

Four long days pass before Dorian makes good on his promise. He feels almost self-conscious, replaying the scene in Josephine’s shop over and over in his head. He does not doubt Adaar’s sincerity, even in his attempts to convince Dorian to accept Josephine’s invitation, but he can't shake the feeling that he is intruding. Even in his own house, he finds himself avoiding the servants, taking to leaving whenever they enter a room. It's silly and he knows it but they are locals. Part of a community to which he does not belong. He catches snippets of conversations and they only reaffirm him in his feeling of alienation. It is mostly town gossip, people and places he is not familiar with. But there is also talk of a festival, and a few times he thinks he hears Adaar’s name.

 

So he keeps avoiding his own employees, wandering the grounds instead or burrowing himself in work. He has made his way through almost a quarter of the books he stole from Cumberland’s library but hardly anything has stuck with him. When he paces the garden it is mostly out of restlessness and he tries to ignore the bees buzzing around his head and reminding him of his promise.

 

At night, he drinks tea with a spoonful of Adaar’s honey but the cook’s brew does not compare to the spices that he remembers so fondly.

 

But after four days, his feet carry him back to the high fence at the edge of the garden. He has never been a man who believes in denying himself pleasures. And if what he desired was a conversation and a cup of tea with a charming beekeeper, who was he to refuse himself?

 

During his walks through the gardens two days earlier, he had found a narrow gate leading to the woods behind the property; to his benefit, he does not have to climb the fence a fourth time.

 

The path is quicker to follow now that he knows where it leads. Dorian is exactly as fond of nature as the average sensible man would be, but even he must admit that the trees are a welcome source of shade during the walk at high noon.

 

A few bees come to crawl over his moss green robes, and it takes all of his self control not to shoo them away. Fortunately, they fly off on their own not long after he leaves the lavender field.

 

Enchanter Dorian of the noble house Pavus, Altus and seasoned mage well-versed in the arts and libraries of several circles across Tevinter, does not trip over a gnarled root when he notices the broad, naked back bared to him within Adaar’s little herb garden.

 

It would be shameful of him if he were to do such a thing, considering the house is yet some distance away. He doesn’t even have a proper eyeful from afar. Still, he steps cautiously the rest of the way until it isn’t distant any longer.

 

His skin is dark, and beneath the bright sheen of sweat, smothered in freckles, particularly across his mammoth shoulders. Dorian only sees those once he’s close enough to catch Adaar’s attention with the rustle of his robes - and also the pointed clearing of his throat.

 

He’s not wearing a shirt, but he _is_ wearing thick leather gloves that reach halfway up his forearms, and Dorian can see why; the weeds piled high at his side are nettled, tiny sharp prickles that would have his palms raw and bloody without a sturdy hide to protect them. They are filthy, though, and when Adaar twists around on his knees to peer up at Dorian and wipes the sweat from his brow, they leave a dark smudge of dirt in their wake.

 

“Dorian,” he greets, tugging at his gloves as he stands. Adaar shoves them into one of his pockets and Dorian nods toward the herb bed.

 

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” he says with exactly as much joviality as he feels. “I was rather enjoying the view.”

 

He is rewarded with a low chuckle. "I was about to take a break anyway." Adaar motions towards the cottage. "Would you care for a glass of lemon water?"

 

"If it's not too much trouble." He waits outside until Adaar returns, carrying a pot and two glasses in his hands. The pitcher has been frosted in the same manner as the tea cups from a week ago. Adaar sets it down on a low table next to his front door and leans down to pluck a few leaves of lemon balm from a pot on the ground, gently shooing away a few bees that are crawling lazily around the plant. He drops the leaves into the glasses and covers them with water from the pot.

 

It's sweet and refreshing and Dorian tries not to stare  when Adaar throws back his head to empty his glass in a few long gulps, exposing his throat in the most distracting way possible.

 

“You’re frightfully domestic,” Dorian tells him with a grin. He lifts his glass and Adaar obligingly taps his own to it.

 

“Not just frightful?”

 

“You?” Dorian laughs, and very markedly does not confess his reaction upon first seeing Adaar’s great hulking shape from a distance. “I’ve met kittens more fearsome. No, you must perish the thought.”

 

Adaar makes a small noise, not quite convinced but not displeased either. He fills and drains another glass before putting it down on the table next to the pitcher. “I hate to be such a bad host,” he says, ignoring Dorian’s raised eyebrows. “But I would like to finish this bed before sundown.” He pulls the gloves from his pockets.

 

“I don' think you could be a bad host if you tried,” Dorian says. “In any case, I was the one who stopped by unannounced.”

 

“You’re not an avid gardener, by any chance?”

 

Dorian clutches his chest in mock-horror. “In these robes? Certainly not. In all honesty, I would not be of much help. I cannot tell any of these plants apart.” He makes a vague gesture towards the herbs and weeds behind Adaar.

 

“I thought not,” Adaar says but there is nothing mocking in his smile. “If you have the time, I would welcome the company anyway.”

 

He drags a kitchen chair into the dirt for Dorian before he pulls on his gloves and returns to the battlefield of his herb garden once more.

 

Adaar isn’t prone to idle chatter, so Dorian fills the pockets of silence with questions. He’s hardly curious about the difference between the rosemary on the left and the slightly greyer rosemary on the right, but the low timbre of Adaar’s voice makes all the tedious questions worthwhile. And he does listen. Some of the information Adaar lends him is retained.

 

Probably.

 

The magical properties of certain flora and fauna are a subject he is more versed in, and once they turn to the subject of sage, they are almost on equal footing.

 

It is commonly referred to as spiritbane in parts of Tevinter, Dorian tells him.

 

It’s the perfect accompaniment for a roast, Adaar adds.

 

“Would all of this not go faster with a bit of magic?” Dorian asks as he watches Adaar pluck some dry leaves off a some herb he has never seen before.

 

Adaar shrugs and discards the leaves into a bucket next to him. “Perhaps. But I think that would require someone with a gentler touch than mine.”

 

Dorian has a hard time imagining someone with touch more gentle, remembering the way Adaar moves through his kitchen and how he brushes wayward bees from his clothing. But he does not say it out loud. It seems too forward, even for him. Especially when he still has a hard time tearing his eyes from Adaar’s bare back and shoulders.

 

“I suppose there is a use for brute force sometimes.”

 

Adaar laughs. “Sometimes.” He nods towards the edge of the forest, just a few yards away from the cottage, where the earth is upturned and dark. Dorian cannot be sure but he thinks it looks different from how he remembers it. “We're expanding the garden and had to fell some trees,” Adaar explains.

 

“We?”

 

“A friend of mine helped. Pulling the stumps requires a lot of force and he’s much bigger than I am.”

 

"Bigger than you?" Dorian cannot help the doubtful expression on his face and Adaar smiles like he has been expecting it. “Now that is something I would have liked to see.”

 

Adaar turns back to his herbs, gently padding the earth around some thyme. “I’m afraid you just missed him. He was here this morning to help with the last of the roots.” He halts and Dorian thinks he looks almost uncertain for a moment. “I admit he might have liked to meet you as well.”

 

“Oh,” Dorian says. “Does that mean I am the talk of the town already?”

 

“Something like that. But I’m afraid in this case it's entirely my fault.” Adaar gets up, seemingly content with the state of his thyme for the moment. “Or maybe Josephine’s. He was at her little gathering the other day and they were all disappointed that you couldn't make it.” There is something apologetic in his smile. “Josephine likes to talk.”

 

Dorian makes a vague gesture. “I'm used to disappointing the masses.” He does not say how very much not accustomed he is to people inviting him for the pleasure of his company, and not social gains. Probably a Marcher thing, he thinks. Or perhaps this community is just as close as Adaar has claimed.

 

“I fear some of our friends think Josephine and I made you up.”

 

Dorian laughs. There is something strangely sweet about the idea. “What a lively imagination that would give you.”

 

Adaar dimples quite unfairly and confesses, “I’m pleased I did not.”

 

“As well you should be.”

 

A bee lands on the curve of one great horn and it is a welcome distraction.

 

“Josephine extends another invitation,” Adaar says, fingers deep in soil.

 

“Under the pressure of your friends, it might be considered more of a demand.”

 

“I could not say,” Adaar tells him, and directs a smile toward the life under his hands. “She asked me to personally invite you, myself.”

 

“Did she?” Dorian asks, smoothing a hand down the silken cuffs of his robe. He lifts his eyes slowly to meet Adaar’s.

 

“I’d like you to come,” he says carefully. “But I would not - that is, if you would prefer to not -”

 

It’s the first time he’s seen this mountain of a man stumble over his words. While he could let him carry on for amusement’s sake, Dorian takes pity.

 

“Not this time, perhaps, but I'd like to accept. I can hardly keep the adoring public from me forever,” he says. “I still haven’t given up hope on that Antivan brandy, after all.”

 

Adaar’s smile is altogether too bright and too honest in the sunlight and Dorian has to look away to keep himself from staring. He fixes his gaze on the herbs next to Adaar instead.

 

“I think I only know this one in its dried form,” he says, pointing to a bushel with star-shaped leaves. “Nevarran Mortalitasi use the smoke for purification, if I remember correctly.” It is strange to see something he only knows from the silent dead pages of old books sprung to life from the ground.

 

Adaar makes a sound that could almost be a chuckle. “It’s very nice in salads,” he says. “And the leaves make for a pretty decoration on top of desserts.”

 

“I’m sure the crypt keepers would be thrilled to hear that.” Dorian has to admit that dessert with Adaar does sound more appealing than the secrets of mummification - as strange as that sounds.

 

Adaar runs one broad thumb over the delicate green stars and shoots him a glance from under unfairly long lashes. “Are you sure I cannot interest you in some gardening?”

 

“Next time, perhaps. When I’m in a more suitable set of robes.” Dorian grins. “And only if you find me a pair of gloves like that in my size.”

  


He brings his own gloves however when he arrives the next day. Borrowed from the gardener who looked curious enough but had not dared to ask him outright. Dorian is glad for it, feeling silly as it is when he makes his way to Adaar’s cottage through the woods and lavender fields. The only more suitable robes he could find are a set of deep purple ones - terribly out of style two years now since he'd bought them in Qarinus. He still feels overdressed and listing in confidence when he reaches the cottage. Perhaps, he thinks, Adaar’s invitation has not been a serious one. The thought of Dorian Pavus kneeling in the dirt gardening is almost too ridiculous to entertain.

 

His doubts fly away like gently buzzing bees as soon as he spots Adaar. Tragically, he is wearing a shirt this morning, but the smile on his face when he sees Dorian makes up for it tenfold.

 

Several crates of bulbs and seeds lie tucked away against the shady side of Adaar’s cottage, each one decorated with crude drawings of what Dorian supposes are the flowers they must contain, little arrows, and very robust womanly figures.

 

“A friend delivers for me,” Adaar says when Dorian peers at him oddly. “She… also thinks you’re an elaborate hoax.”

 

They move a few crates into the mid-morning sun and make themselves comfortable on a patch of dirt.

 

Relatively speaking.

 

“I’m not certain I’m meant for manual labor,” he warns when Adaar instructs him on the placement of the bulbs and, quite shamefully, how to properly use a trowel. Still, he pulls on his gardener’s gloves, and plays at being beyond decadence.

 

It’s unpleasant. The sun beats down harder the further they crawl into the day, his legs cramp, soil makes its way into one of his gloves and turns to gritty mud against his sweaty flesh. Insects far less charming than honeybees swarm his face. He’s never before had such an uncomfortable time on his knees, covered in sweat.

 

He is vocal in his discomfort, and Adaar takes it all with grace. He seems perfectly at home in the dirt, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. Adaar isn’t wearing gloves at all. When Dorian makes note of this, Adaar confesses to enjoying the feel of earth under his hands, and well. Well. It’s a barbaric sort of charming, and when Dorian teases him for it, his scorn isn’t genuine.

 

It doesn't look like much once they are finished and Dorian scrambles to his feet, legs stiff and knees aching. Just a patch of dark, freshly-worked earth, a soft bed of loosened soil. Adaar must have seen the expression on his face because he smiles encouragingly at him when he hands him a second watering can.

 

“It’s going to be a much more satisfying result once we start with seedlings,” he says, gently watering the soil beneath. He pauses, a hint of uncertainty twisting his features. “That is, if you want to come back. I would not want to presume…”

 

But Dorian finds that he does want to come back. His muscles are burning in a way that promises soreness in the morning and there is more dirt and sweat on him than he has ever known, but he feels _good_. He tips the watering can, mirroring the gentle technique Adaar uses.

 

“If you would have me again after today’s performance, I would gladly come back.”

 

And so he does. The next day and the next. And every single one of the week that follows. It is hard work and it does not get easier, even though the soreness in his muscles gives way to a more pleasant feeling of bone-deep exhaustion after a few days. And Adaar was right; it does get more rewarding once they start working with seedlings instead of seeds. At the end of the day, they look down on rows and rows of small delicate green things that he takes care not to trample upon when he moves on stiff legs.

 

It is a routine, of sorts. In the morning, Dorian wanders down the cottage and is greeted by Adaar and a new batch of seeds or seedlings, brought by the mysterious friend who apparently keeps earlier hours than Dorian. They work long hours, usually well into the afternoon, only taking breaks for sweet lemon water and tea and whatever little pastry Adaar has prepared in the early morning hours when Dorian yet sleeps.

 

And afterwards, Adaar cooks.

 

Dorian is not sure what to think of it, in the beginning. These long work days turning into dinner. There is something strangely intimate about cleaning himself in Adaar’s small washroom, while he can hear the noises of cooking and Adaar’s quiet humming through the thin walls. But once he comes out, the kitchen is already filled with the scent of spices. The food is always excellent, the company even better, and Dorian finds himself losing track of time. It is usually well after sundown when he pushes back his chair and takes his leave - more reluctantly every night.

 

On the eighth day, Dorian arrives at the cottage to find Adaar with gloves back on his hands and an apologetic expression on his face. Neither bodes well.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says by way of greeting. “I’m afraid today’s work is going to be a bit more unpleasant.”

 

“Ah, don’t tell me the days of crawling around on my knees in the dirt are over? And I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

 

Adaar smiles. “We will get back to that. But today, I need to overturn some soil in one of the new beds. Pull some roots. It’s rough work, so I understand if you wanted to come back another time.”

 

Dorian tuts him and takes the long garden claw leaning next to the cottage door behind him. “That you would think I’d abandon you so quickly. Really, what must you think of me.” The tool is heavier than expected but the feel of it not unlike one of the clunkier staffs with which an apprentice would practice. Surely Dorian can learn to work with this.

 

The work is easy enough in the beginning, when he feels he has something to prove. And then the day wears on and it isn’t anymore. His back is killing him, and it feels like he’s using muscles he didn’t even know he had. The only consolation is that Adaar picks a moment sometime after their first hour at work to rid himself of his shirt.

 

It’s difficult enough, but it isn’t unbearable, and Dorian feels he’s actually doing fairly well, all things considered.

 

Adaar had warned him early on to fetch him should Dorian come across a root too stubborn to pull. Clearly he had not taken into account the stubbornness of Dorian himself. On both their heads be it, then, when Dorian does meet such a root.

 

Dorian pulls and pulls and, thinking himself clever, grips the claw with all his might and heaves all of his weight backwards in one hard jerk.

 

There is a sickening, muted pop and Dorian sinks to the ground in shock. The blissful numbness of it lasts only a moment before there is fire, agony plunging through his body from his shoulder - his shoulder! And Adaar is at his side while he pants for air through gritted teeth.

 

Adaar says something, and Dorian tries to listen past the blood rushing in his ears, the shrill note of pain in his head. “Cloak,” he repeats, desperate, but it’s the only word he’s retained.

 

“I have to take it off,” Adaar says again, patient, but quick. “I have to take it off to see, so I can fix it.”

 

“Not possible,” Dorian says. He means it as a joke, he’s hysterical to find, but in truth he only sounds contrary. Adaar pulls the gloves from his hands and folds them.

 

“Open your mouth,” he coaxes, and Dorian does, and then there is leather between his teeth for him to bear down on when Adaar rights him. Dorian very badly wants to hunch over again, to protect his useless, wastrel of an arm, but he bites down on his muffled curses while Adaar works the robes from his body.

 

The tragedy is that he can’t even tease Adaar about undressing him.

 

His chest is as bare as Adaar’s when he’s finally allowed to sink back onto one palm and he won’t look, he can’t, certainly not after Adaar tells him only too calmly, “You’ve pulled your shoulder free of itself.”

 

“Oh, is that all?” Dorian asks. He doesn’t know if Adaar can understand him around the mouthful of leather. There’s a soothing hand pressed like an anchor between his shoulder blades.

 

“Dorian,” he says, “I’m going to have to push it back in.”

 

Dorian has seen gladiators, seasoned warriors and slaves and mages alike in the colosseum of Minrathous, their limbs dislodged under their skin. He’s seen how they throw their weight into the wall to force themselves right before lifting their shields, their swords, their staves and returning to battle. Now, though, he can only wonder _how_. He wants to drink himself numb, to sever the arm from his body if only to stop the white-hot pain from shooting through his body, to crawl into bed and die. But he nods, feebly, and Adaar’s hand slips to his opposite side to hold him fast.

 

With the other, he -

 

Well.

 

Everything goes very bright and sharp before it goes grey, and it seems like an eternity before he registers a slow, seeping trickle of cold heat sapping the agony from him. Magic, he thinks, the notion abstract and simple as he comes back to himself.

 

There is a hand supporting him by the back of his neck, a few fingers threaded in the sweaty hair at his nape, and another hovering and glowing at his shoulder. The pain remains, but it is distant, and Dorian does not care.

 

The sun is too bright in the sky and he feels like he’s going to vomit, but he doesn’t care about that, either.

  
He wakes and the world is white.

 

Dorian blinks and makes a sound that is dry and painful somewhere back in his throat. He turns his head and realizes it isn't the world that is white. Just the sheets and pillows on which he is bedded. Startlingly white and unbearably soft. He tries to shift his weight but his arm won’t cooperate.

 

He frowns in confusion and it all comes back to him then. The root, the pain. The taste of leather in his mouth and Adaar’s hand on the back of his neck. His shoulder…

 

There is a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as his pushes back the thin white covers and takes a look. His right arm is in a makeshift sling, gently held in place against his torso by soft white cloth. He bites his bottom lip to keep from crying out as he moves tentatively. But the expected pain fails to come. There is just a ghost of it, a hollow feeling where his shoulder and arm connect.

 

Dorian knows he is in Adaar’s bed, a fact that would have been tantalizingly exciting on any other day. He has never seen the beekeeper’s bedroom but he recognizes the smell of honey and spices and lavender coming in through the open window. All of it accompanied by the scent of fresh laundry and something else, something not quite human. Qunari, perhaps. It smells like comfort. A thought so intimate that Dorian pushes it aside immediately, along with the rest of the blankets.

 

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, only swaying slightly without his right arm to support him. Adaar must have put him in one of his own shirts. Soft worn cotton, also white. It is several sizes too big, of course and when Dorian stands up, it falls almost to his knees.

 

The room is just as small and cluttered as the rest of the cottage. Dorian supports his weight on the edge of a small wooden dresser. On top of it, there are piles of books and papers just as there are on the chair next to the bed. He finds colorful shards and milky semiprecious stones on every available surface, along with more than a few trinkets he remembers from Josephine’s store. Bundles of dried lavender hang from the ceiling by the window and a mobile made from seashells and pieces of driftwood swings lazily in the breeze.

 

He has not taken more than two steps when the door opens and Adaar enters the room. If he’s startled to see Dorian upright, he hides it well. “How’s your arm?”

 

“Attached to my shoulder, thankfully, which is ideal.” Fingers fluttering over the makeshift sling, he says, “My mother would approve of the melodramatics involved in fainting dead away at a bit of pain. I’ll try not to feel too proud.”

 

“Ah.” The cup and saucer in Adaar’s hands rattle a bit as he sets them down on top of a tall stack of books. Trails of steam drift like a wave in the breeze from the open window. “That was me. You were drifting, and you said you were going to be ill, so I just…” He flexes his fingers pointedly, and his eyes go soft in apology. “I asked permission, but you weren’t in a place to answer, and I put you to sleep anyway.”

 

He’s right to be so contrite, of course; it’s questionable ethics at best to use one’s magic so invasively upon another. So the rules of etiquette dictate, and in the art of healing, necessitate.

 

Dorian finds he doesn’t care.

 

“I should thank you,” he says instead of all the things he might, and Adaar tips his head. It’s bashful, and Dorian can’t find in him one ounce of discomfort at the thought of a sleep spell sucking his consciousness away at another man’s discretion.

 

“I should apologize instead,” Adaar says and a painful expression settles on his face. The sight alone is enough to make Dorian feel bad.

 

“What for? Fixing my shoulder better than any of the well-paid healers of my father could have? Without you I would have been in pain for days.” He tries an encouraging smile. “I may have given you the impression that I am very robust but the truth is, I do avoid being pain whenever I can.”

 

His words seem to have no effect. “Without me you would not even be hurt.” He wrings his big hands and Dorian notices how he does not meet his eye. “You came here to help me and all it got you is…” His eyes flick to Dorian’s shoulder.

 

Dorian steps forward and places his good hand on Adaar’s arm. “Now, now,” he says and smiles when Adaar finally looks at him. “None of that. You did warn me after all. Your only mistake was underestimating the Pavus stubbornness. You are not the first.”

 

Tentatively, Adaar covers Dorian’s hand with his own, warm and comforting. Hands that heal, he thinks. Hands that might be just as proficient as other things, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. But the thought is a redundant one, at least while his own arm is in a sling and Adaar still looks at him as if he might break at any moment.

 

“Am I right to assume this cup of tea was intended for me?” he asks instead and nods towards the stack of books. It earns him a little smile from Adaar. A start.

 

“I didn't know if you were awake.”

 

“Well, I am. And all this excitement has made me hungry. Would it be awfully presumptuous of me to ask you for more of those pastries with the strawberry jam you served yesterday?”

 

Adaar’s smile widens and Dorian detects the relief in it. “Not at all.”

 

Dorian makes himself comfortable at Adaar’s table with very little prompting at all, fiddling with a few sticky-warm candles dripping wax in the center. He lifts their flames higher and lower, twists them ‘round and makes them dance in an attempt to settle his own nerves.

 

“I don’t suppose you’ll want me to assist you after that whole display.”

 

He chances a look at the slope of Adaar’s broad shoulders, how they shift when he turns to look back at Dorian from across the tiny room.

 

“You’d like to?”

 

“Well,” Dorian pulls his fingers from the flames and distracts himself by cupping his tea instead, “who doesn’t enjoy toiling under the hot sun? Grueling labor is my passion.”

 

“I did not think you would want to come back,” Adaar says, worry plain on his face. His hands grip a plate of pastries so hard, Dorian wonders if it will snap in two.

 

“I’m afraid you won’t get rid of me that easily,” he quips, trying to sound as jovial as possible. He does not like seeing Adaar like this, he realizes. Genuinely unsure. “It takes more than some gruesome injury to keep me away from…” He stops, suddenly aware where his words have led him. “From here.”

 

Adaar sets down the plate on the table in front of him. “I am glad.” His voice is soft but he looks relieved.

 

Dorian takes one of the pastries. “And if you keep serving me these, I might just never leave.”

 

Adaar doesn’t laugh, not like he’s supposed to. He sits to share a cup of tea and a smile instead, and Dorian… damn him, but Dorian doesn’t know if he wants to be taken seriously or not.

  
He resolves not to think about it and steals another pastry. It’s the healthy thing to do.


	4. Chapter 4

 

He’s bringing berries. 

 

Maker and the old gods preserve him, but he’s got a basket of freshly picked blackberries tucked under his arm, sent to deliver them like a messenger boy from the cook when she learned of Dorian’s frequent trips down to the beekeeper’s cottage. 

 

They’re sticky and sweet - he’s pilfered one or two or ten, and his fingers are stained purple, but Adaar won’t fault him for it. He’ll love them, of course, and Dorian can’t help but wonder if Adaar will bake them into some flaky tart, or squish them into jam with his broad, bare hands, or let Dorian feed them to him bit by succulent bit, his full lips pressed to Dorian’s fingertips, and -

 

No, definitely the tart. 

 

Dorian cannot find Adaar in front of the cottage or near the herb beds, which is unusual but not the first time this has happened. He slows his step and shifts the basket from one side to the other while he looks around for any sign where Adaar might be. Some gardening tools are neatly lined up at the wall next to the door, including the infamous claw that helped dislocate his shoulder. But no beekeeper in sight. 

 

Tentatively, he takes a few more steps and sees that the front door is slightly ajar. He hesitates. Part of him is sure that Adaar would not mind him entering on his own. Not Adaar who has shared every part of his life in the last two weeks with open hands and a dimpled smile. But Dorian still feels a bit strange when he pushes open the door with one foot and peers into the semi-darkness of the cottage. After the bright sunshine outside, everything beyond the door lies in shadow. 

 

“I do hope I'm not imposing,” he calls out but only silence answers. He enters anyway, determined to at least put down the berries on the kitchen table before continuing his search. He wonders if Adaar has gone down to the village, but surely he would have told him before he… 

 

Dorian Pavus most certainly does not let out a most undignified shriek. And he certainly does not flinch so hard that a handful of berries tumble from the basket and roll over the kitchen floor. The string of curses that would make an Antivan pirate applaud, however, is something he cannot deny. 

 

There is a boy on the kitchen counter. A boy with the most ridiculous hat Dorian has ever seen and dangling bare feet and a bemused expression on his pale face. 

 

“Hello,” says the boy - and he is a boy, despite his gaunt face, his long limbs, his old eyes - and then, “You’re Dorian.”

 

“I am,” Dorian answers, because he is. He sets the berries on the table, slowly. The boy isn’t looking at him. Dorian isn’t even sure his eyes lingered at all when he entered the room, or when he threw his fit in surprise. He’s focused instead on the fat little fellows crawling over the pale skin of his hands. Several bees rest there, and several more line his arms, his shoulders, his thighs as though he is a very large flower and not a boy at all. They drift in lazily from the window, drawn to him like moths to a flame. 

 

Dorian’s mouth shapes a moue when one lands on his neck and crawls its way up his jaw to settle on his face. 

 

“I know,” says the stranger, in Adaar’s home, where Adaar is not. He lifts a hand and turns it slowly over to reveal half a dozen more bees huddled together in the cradle of his palm. “He’s my friend like he’s yours, only not really. It isn’t exactly the same. It could be, but you wouldn’t want that.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You may have it, but you don’t need to beg.” A bee crawls its way to the tip of the boy’s finger and drops, drifting over to the table and Dorian’s basket of berries. It is then that he finally, really looks up, staring at Dorian with frightfully pale eyes. “You’re real.”

 

“That I am. What gave it away?”

 

“You did.” The bee on his face makes itself comfortable at the corner of his mouth. “The others said you weren’t, but I think they were teasing. Josephine and Adaar were very sure you were.”

 

“Well, I certainly hope I am.” Dorian halts himself from speaking further on it. “This conversation has taken a turn for the bizarre. You know who I am, but we haven’t been properly introduced.”

 

“I am Cole. I help sometimes,” the boy says, cocking his head to the side. “I don’t know if that is proper.” 

 

“Proper enough. A name, at least.” It is a start. “How is it that we're only meeting now?”

 

The bee turns on the spot a couple of times before making its way up his cheek. “People forget sometimes.” 

 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

 

“Only because you have not forgotten yet.” Cole smiles, a slow curving of the lips that sets the bee on his cheek buzzing off and out of the window. “And you did not go to Josephine’s house with Adaar. He was disappointed.” 

 

Dorian shifts his weight from one foot to the other, refusing to be discomfited on principle. “Speaking of which, where is Adaar?” 

 

“In the back,” Cole says, swinging his legs. “With the spinning device.” Something like genuine regret flashed across his pale face. “I cannot help with that because I have no magic.” Another pause, another long thoughtful look. “You could, maybe. But I don’t think he would let you. He does not want you to hurt again.” 

 

It's enough to go on. “Well, that doesn’t sound ominous. I will have to take a look for myself, I think.” 

 

Cole regards him for a moment and then nods solemnly. “I can take you.” As if on command, the bees that have been crawling around his body take flight. A small orderly swarm that circles around Cole’s head once and then flies out of the open window. In a rare occurrence, Dorian is lost for words, but Cole does not seem to expect him to say anything anyway as he darts past him and out of the door. 

 

Dorian follows him outside and around the cottage. He's never paid the back much mind, but there appears to be a use for the small skew shed leaning against the back of the cottage after all. A noise comes from inside, a low hum. Cole knocks on the door but it is so soft that Dorian almost doesn’t hear it despite standing at his side. 

 

A moment later, the door opens and Adaar appears in the frame, blinking against the bright sunlight. A wave of stuffy hot air wafts towards Dorian. It smells strongly of honey and metal. 

 

Dorian tries not to stare, he really does. But it is difficult when Adaar’s shirt clings to his body like that, with rolled up sleeves and his collar opened far enough to expose the beads of sweat on his neck and upper chest. He tries to keep his eyes on Adaar’s face instead but all he can see are flushed cheeks and bright eyes gleaming brighter when they recognize him. 

 

He’s glowing. Part of it is the contentment radiating from him, sweat and serenity in equal measure, but Dorian can taste the magic on his tongue this close. It shimmers and pulsates in a way that compels Dorian to stillness - he knows what it is, but he has no desire in the least to shake it from himself. 

 

“Are you charming bees?” he says, in lieu of a proper greeting. Adaar doesn’t seem to mind. 

 

“Not here. I cast the spell this morning. It takes time to wear off. Would you like to come in?”

 

“I didn’t come prepared for a sauna,” Dorian tells him, but he is rather curious. “Oh, just a peek, then.”

 

The room is lit by magefire. There are a pair of vats, several boxes stacked high against one wall, and a few buckets here and there. Once he’s inside, he notices the thick knife in Adaar’s hand, and several wooden slats propped evenly against a wall. The ceiling is probably taller than the room is wide, but Dorian is used to that by now. 

 

Cole doesn’t follow, but he does shut the door behind them, leaving them alone in the stifling hot room. 

 

Adaar waves a hand over the vats and the contraption built over the open rim. Finely crafted steel in the shape of a kitchen whisk plunges low within, wide but not quite as wide as the vat itself, and at the bottom a lake of deep, dark honey rises high. A pulse of magic leaves Adaar’s hand, and the ‘spinning device’ whirs to life. 

 

“Fascinating,” Dorian breathes, peering closely at the contraption. “Did you make this yourself?”

 

“Most of it,” Adaar says and Dorian detects a hint of pride in his voice. “I had help from some friends.” 

 

Dorian is not surprised. For someone like Adaar, there are likely always friends willing to help. 

 

“Let me get some more honey into the filter and then we can go back outside.” Adaar squats down next to one of the vats and opens a small tap at the side of it. A slow stream of golden honey pours out of it and into a bucket underneath. There is a fine-mesh strainer on top of it and the honey forms a glistening pool as it collects. “It takes some time to filter through,” Adaar explains and closes the tap. He catches the last drop with his finger and brings it to his lips as he straightens back up. 

 

Now Dorian cannot _help_ but stare. 

 

Adaar licks his finger clean with the shameless nonchalance of someone who does such things thoughtlessly, and Dorian’s mouth goes dry. He is suddenly very aware of the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and the dim light and how close he is to Adaar in this small space and…

 

“Would you mind helping me getting these back to the hive?” Adaar asks, completely unaware of Dorian’s predicament. He is already busy sorting wooden slats into boxes and only turns his head when Dorian doesn't answer. 

 

“Certainly.” His voice must sound relatively normal despite his dry mouth because Adaar smiles and hands him one of the boxes. From up close, Dorian recognizes the slightly pale wood. They are part of the hives.. It’s heavier than he expected and slightly sticky underneath his fingers. Adaar takes the rest, three stacked up boxes in total - an injustice Dorian does not have the mind to comment on. Instead he pushes open the door with his hip, welcoming the bright sunlight and fresh air outside. 

 

Cole is nowhere to be seen and when Adaar notices Dorian’s confused expression, he chuckles lightly. “Don’t worry. He does that sometimes.” 

 

Dorian tries to shrug but with the added weight of the box he probably looks more like an odd jolt. “I am not so surprised,” he says, pointedly keeping his voice free from judgement. “He seems… peculiar.” 

 

Another chuckle. “He’s a good kid. Helps out where he can. I wouldn't get half of the work done without him, I think. And he's great with the bees.” Adaar’s smile is an honest one. And fond. 

 

“That much I have noticed,” Dorian says, remembering the way the bees crawled over Cole’s hands and face. 

 

They make their way around the cottage and up the hill in the direction of Pavus villa. The rise is gentle enough, made only slightly more strenuous by the weight of the box. How Adaar manages to keep his breathing so steady with the weight of three of them is beyond Dorian. Probably has something to do with all that muscle.  


 

They step into the shade of the forest, tall birches and taller pine trees softly rustling in the wind above them. Here, the path is too narrow to walk alongside each other so Dorian follows Adaar’s lead instead. He has to force himself not to keep looking at his broad back and shoulders and to focus on the treacherous ground in front of him. A fall would likely mean another injury and he doubts that Adaar would continue to accept his help after that. 

 

The clearing opens up before them, the one Dorian has not set foot in since that first day. A shame, really. It is small, smaller than the lavender field, and due to the tall dark trees surrounding it, it lies partially in shadow. But the meadow itself is an explosion of wildflowers. Streams of blue and red and yellow are speckled across the high grass, safe for the carefully cut circle in the middle of the clearing where Adaar’s beehives stand. 

 

The buzzing of bees is loud enough for Dorian to hear it from several yards away and he halts cautiously. 

 

“Are you going to renew your spell?” he asks and Adaar stops to look at him. 

 

“I am.” 

 

Dorian takes a step back. His arms are starting to feel the weight of the box now. “Should I…?” He tries to convey his meaning without using his hands which only results in a vague nod. But Adaar understands and smiles. 

 

“There is no need. As long as you stay close to me.”

 

“I’m sure I can manage that.” He hopes his relief is not all too visible on his face. In all honesty, he's not sure if he could have done the spell. He knows how it works in theory but has never actually tried it. His tutors in Tevinter had never put much value on calming auras - not as long as there were storms to conjure and dead to raise. 

 

Those who would teach in the art would intend it as sedation, the calming venom to be used before striking a deadly blow - literally or politically. It would hardly be used with the intention of relaxing a swarm of bees. 

 

“Cole says he isn’t a mage,” Dorian begins conversationally as Adaar takes the boxes from his hands. “And yet, he’s charmed your little flock without the use of magic.”

 

His hands are a tacky mess of honey and beeswax, and he frowns at the way his fingers stick together. An unwelcome little voice at the back of his mind tells him to offer them up to Adaar’s mouth. It’s a nice mouth, full lipped and dark. And it’s moving. Because Dorian posed a question. 

 

“Cole is… special.”

 

“Oh?” Dorian feels an unfriendly prickle down low in his belly, and he shoos it away. “How so?”

 

That nice mouth twists in indecision, and then it is hidden from view when Adaar turns away to return a stack of the slats to a hive. “He isn’t exactly… human.”

 

“And neither are you.”

 

Adaar laughs quietly, the fabric of his shirt stretched so taut as he bends over that it strains at the seams. “No, neither am I. I wouldn't say it’s precisely the same.”

 

“I can pick at you all I like, but you won’t answer, will you,” Dorian groans, sticking and unsticking his fingers together because it’s something to do.

 

“He might prefer to answer that himself.” Adaar’s head cocks to the side, his proud horns tipping as he goes, and it is remarkably endearing to watch from behind. “... Then again, he might not really answer at all.”

 

“A bit like you, then?”

 

Adaar straightens to his full height once the slats are back in place, and turns to Dorian from on high. His face could have been chiseled from stone, but Dorian can see the sheepish light in his eye and in the quirk of his lips. “I don’t mean to be cryptic,” he says, apologetic. “But I think it’s an answer he’d like to give.”

 

For a moment, Dorian considers pressing him for one anyway, but then decides against it. He can feel when he is biting on stone. “Very well,” he says and shrugs, now unhindered by the weight of boxes. “I will ask him. You're unflinchingly loyal. Not that I am surprised.” 

 

Adaar ducks his head and the tips of his ears grow a shade darker, as if Dorian had complimented him on something much more indecent. He moves over to the second hive that seems to be missing a few boxes. Dorian follows. When Adaar takes off the top, a flat piece of sunbleached wood, the buzzing from inside the hive grows louder. It is a more aggressive sound than Dorian has heard from the bees until then and he can feel his stomach clench in something similar to fear. 

 

When the bees come flying out, they move quickly. And completely by instinct, Dorian moves quickly as well. There aren't many of them but they are fast and angry and Dorian throws his hand up to defend himself before he can think. 

 

There is a swift but oddly soft motion next to him and suddenly there is a broad palm on his back and another wrapped around his raised hand. 

 

“Don’t move now,” Adaar says, low and close to his ear. So close.

 

And then Dorian feels it. Magic. A prickling warmth flowing into him, around him. Wandering from his back and his hand all the way over his body until it engulfs him completely. Calm, like a low hum that cradles his body and crawls into his bones. 

 

It is not just a calming aura. It is protection. It is warmth. And Dorian has never felt anything like it. 

 

The buzzing of the bees has calmed, grown almost quiet as they fly around them in languid lazy circles. But Dorian can hardly hear them anyway through the rushing of blood in his ears. He looks up, painfully aware of the heat in his face and his wide open eyes. 

 

“I apologize,” Adaar says. “I didn't know they would be this aggravated.” He steps back and Dorian is too dazed to move or speak. He can feel Adaar’s fingers brush against his waist as they retreat and when he releases his hand, the magic leaves him like the falling tide. 

 

“That’s quite alright,” Dorian says. His voice most certainly does not catch. “No harm done. Near thing, though. Perhaps they’re jealous that your attention is divided - as well they should be. I’m worthy of jealousy.”

 

Adaar lays a broad palm against the side of the hive, and a wave of magic pulses through. Dorian can practically see it, shimmering waves of silver-white-blue, and several more bees drift lazily from within. “Look at them,” Dorian says when several land along Adaar’s shoulders, his horns, his arms. He makes an effort not to feel even privately frightened. “They’re nothing more than little cats. You’ve spoiled them.”

 

“Bees are easy,” Adaar tells him, and says nothing more on it. Dorian, for his part, doesn’t feel it within himself to ask for elaboration. Instead, he’s content to watch Adaar at his work, charming bees into complacency while he stacks the shelves inside of their hives one by one. It’s soothing, in a way he wouldn’t normally find this nature business to be soothing. A fat little fellow lands on his elbow, and he’s only mildly panicked by it.

 

“Would you like to see?” Adaar asks before closing the hive and Dorian takes his eye off the bee crawling up his arm. Thankfully it chooses this exact moment to take off and serves no longer as a distraction. 

 

“After they’ve almost attacked me? Who wouldn’t be tempted.” But he steps closer, carefully treading around some of the bees that have drowsily plopped down on the grassy ground between the hives. With the memory of the angry swarm still fresh in his mind, he takes a tentative look at first. The buzzing sound is loud and only slightly muffled by the wooden boxes. Even with Adaar’s calming aura radiating through the air, the bees inside the hive are moving quickly and busily, a dark mass that swiftly devours the new frames.

 

“They will clean out the left-over honey,” Adaar explains. 

 

Dorian smiles. “So you _do_ spoil them.” 

 

“It’s more of a mutually beneficial arrangement. They get the honey and I get clean frames.” In a careful and soft movement, Adaar extents two fingers to a bee that is slowly crawling along the top of the box. After a moment of hesitation, the bee climbs on top of Adaar’s index finger and allows him to carefully set it down on a wildflower next to the hive. Dorian watches in wonder. He has seen Adaar moving with extraordinary care and grace, especially for someone his size. But the gentleness he shows to his bees is something else altogether. 

 

“Do they ever sting you?” he asks as Adaar puts the top back on the hive and makes sure it is properly closed. 

 

“Sometimes,” Adaar admits. “When they feel threatened or scared. It kills them so I try to be as careful as possible.” 

 

Of course he would. Dorian has no difficulty imagining Adaar feeling pain and regret over every lost bee life. Even if the striped bugger was to sting him first. 

 

They slowly make their way back to the cottage. Some of the bees on Adaar’s horns accompany them until the edge of the forest before taking off in search of new flowers - like clingy children who cannot bear to see their father leave so soon. Dorian is not convinced that this is all just due to Adaar’s spell. 

 

In truth, Dorian has all but forgotten the young man from Adaar’s kitchen. He isn’t there upon their return, until he is, and Dorian only just manages not to visibly startle. Adaar seems completely unbothered by it. Adaar is unbothered by quite a lot, though, so Dorian will reserve judgement.

 

“I’m here to help,” Cole says, apropos of nothing. “But it isn’t - you’re wondering why I’m here. I answered. You’re wondering a lot of things about me.”

 

Dorian throws a bewildered look to Adaar, who dimples back at him and shuffles to the other side of his kitchen. Cole’s legs dangle, long and gangly, from the counter top. “Do you read minds, Cole?”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“Oh? That’s normally an area of expertise left to maleficar.” 

 

“Yes. I’m not, though.”

 

“No,” Dorian says slowly, “I don’t suppose you are. If I might ask, then, what manner of mind-reader are you?”

 

“A helpful one,” Adaar says, though his back is turned to them as he prepares something by the oven. Cole’s enormous hat tips to the side with his head. It’s a miracle he knocks nothing off the shelves. His eyes are pale, like he can stare a hole straight through Dorian’s face.

 

“I wouldn’t,” Cole says, unhelpfully. “Your mind is very loud. It’s easy to hear. So busy, all the time, buzzing like a thousand little bees. Does it ever stop?”

 

Dorian makes himself comfortable at the table, considering he’s the only one who looks out of place just standing about. “Not to date. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

 

“You want to know so much, even though you already do. You like knowing. Not because it gives you power, but because it makes you happy. You want to know everything, all the time. I can give you answers, if you like?”

 

Dorian brushes a finger over his lips and can hardly open his mouth to speak before Cole goes on. “No, I don’t want anything for it. You want answers, and I can help.” His voice takes on a plaintive note. “I’m not trying to trick you.”

 

He holds out his hands, palms up, and before Dorian can wonder why he would, Adaar turns to fill them with a cup and saucer of tea. Cole ducks his head into the plume of steam, and still his massive hat disturbs nothing upon the precarious shelves behind him. He’s so at home on this tiny space, with the bees and Adaar. They’re perfectly in sync, their motions unhurried, their eyes and words as soft as cotton. Dorian’s eyes flicker over toward the window. 

 

“It isn’t like that,” Cole says directly into his teacup, legs swinging out. “It’s good, but it isn’t that. It’s quiet here. Peaceful, clouds drifting through an evening sky. You’ve brought color. It’s sunset now. I like that, too.”

 

Bees and clouds and sunsets, Dorian thinks and leans back in his chair. These are not thoughts, not in the way that he is used to. Impressions, perhaps. There is an order somewhere in Cole’s words. It is just a little bit more difficult to make sense of it. 

 

Adaar sets a cup in front of him and smiles encouragingly before sitting down with his own cup in one hand. They are silent for a moment as they take their first sips, until Cole cocks his head to one side as if listening to a sound in the distance. 

 

“They are unhappy,” he says. “And tired.”

 

Adaar nods solemnly. “I know. It’s the queen, I think.” 

 

Dorian feels like he is missing half the conversation but both Cole and Adaar seem to understand each other perfectly. Cole’s heels bang against the cupboard door underneath the counter, a startlingly loud sound coming from him. 

 

“She is trying,” he says, just a hint of irritation on his pale face. 

 

Adaar sighs and his shoulders slump just slightly. “Sometimes that's not enough, Cole.” 

 

Another moment of silence while Cole contemplates, his eyes fixed on Adaar. “You're thinking about killing her.” 

 

“I am.” He runs a finger along the rim of his teacup. “You know it has to be done. For the good of the hive.” He looks up and notices Dorian’s confusion. “The bees that attacked you. Their queen is…” His eyes flick to Cole. “She's too weak for the colony. Hasn't laid eggs in weeks. That is why they're so irritable.” 

 

“So you read the minds of bees as well, Cole?” Dorian asks, genuinely curious. Cole looks at him as if trying to decide whether he is joking. 

 

“Of course not. Bees are different,” he says as if it is an explanation. Dorian looks to Adaar for help, just in time to see him hiding his smile behind the rim of his teacup. “You were afraid,” Cole continues.

 

“A natural reaction, I would say.”

 

“But you are not afraid when you are with him.” Cole’s face adopts a thoughtful expression. “Broad shoulders, muscles shifting. But gentle, so gentle. His hand on your hand. Palm on your back. Fingertips on the nape your neck.” His eyes shift to Dorian’s, pale but intent. “ _Don’t move now_.”

 

“Cole,” Adaar says, not harshly but emphatically enough to stop him.

 

Cole looks at him for a moment and then jumps off the counter in one swift movement. “He wants to know,” he says. “How you do it.”

 

Dorian feels far out of his depth but keeps his face impassive while Adaar’s teeters on the edge of understanding. He glances from Cole to Dorian and leans back, shoulders spread wide and comfortable. “How I do what?” he asks Dorian. 

 

“Generally, quite a few things. Fit into that shirt, for one.”

 

“The magic with the bees,” Cole fills in helpfully for both parties. Dorian realizes it’s true only as Cole says it. Certainly he’d marveled at it, but not so far that he’d phrase it so. Behind _wanting to know_ was the implication of _desire to be taught_ , and Dorian had no intention of asking Adaar to tutor him in such a simple art. 

 

Once, he might have turned his nose up at the notion that something so basic could be worthy of his time and effort - he, learned Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle. Now, a tetchy little bundle of shame plucks at his innards when he considers all the things he does not know simply because the Magisters he studied under would consider them lesser. 

 

There is nothing lesser about Adaar.

 

“Ah, yes,” he says. “That. I suppose I am curious. It wouldn’t have been taught in the subjects I devoted myself to in my youth, you see.” He curls a hand around his cup to draw good humor from its warmth. “Necromancy and pyromancy normally inspire quite the opposite of calming auras. You might say they oppose them in every way.”

 

“I’d be happy to show you,” Adaar says without a thought. 

 

Cole stands resolutely at the center of the room. Dorian fears he’s the only one who must feel awkward about it. As if on cue, Cole drops to a crouch instead, which really only makes it worse. 

 

“And will you show Cole to a chair as well?” Dorian asks, nudging one out just a hair with his foot. Cole pays it no mind, content to peer up at both of them from the brim of his hat. 

 

“Tables are for eating,” Cole tells him like it’s a fact of life Dorian mightn’t have been privy to, and his nose wrinkles in distaste. 

 

“You needn’t eat to sit at a table,” Adaar sighs. 

 

“I get the feeling you’ve had this conversation before.”

 

“Yes,” Cole says. “I don’t like eating. But he wants me to. He says I don’t have to, but he makes the food anyway, and puts it in front of me, and he hopes I will. So I’ll stay here.”

 

"Ah," Dorian says, brushing his fingertips over his smile. “Now that does sound like him.”

 

Adaar colors at the tips of his ears, and ducks his head. “Would you like to learn the spell?” he asks. Dorian wants to tease him for how poorly he navigates a change of subject, but the teeth he sets into his bottom lip give him time enough for pity to set. 

 

“Unless it is a well guarded secret, of course. But I don’t assume there is something like a magical beekeeper code?” 

 

Adaar laughs, a bright and honest sound. “Not that I know of.”

 

“If that is the case, I would love to learn.” Dorian fixes his gaze on the teacup in front of him but cannot quite hide the smile that curls his lips upward. “Perhaps there are some things I can teach you in return. My magical education was rather extensive, after all.” 

 

When he dares to look up, he finds Adaar smiling widely. “A mutually beneficial arrangement then.” 

 

Cole disappears in the short hours to follow, which Dorian takes no notice of until he  reappears  and startles a little slosh of tea over the rim of Dorian’s cup. He holds a wide crate of full honey jars in his arms, perhaps a dozen, for Adaar’s inspection. “There are more, but there was no room in the box.”

 

“Sera left a stack of them by the side of the house,” Adaar says, wiping the baking flour from his hands onto his apron and slips that off of his neck. “I’ll put them in the shed for you.”

 

Then he ducks out of the house and leaves Dorian alone with Cole. 

 

“You could probably set those down,” he says idly, nodding toward the crate. Cole does, on the counter top, and then he turns to Dorian again with his serious eyes and two jars of honey. 

 

“One for you to taste, and one for your cook. Her daughter likes honey in her morning tea, but she’s too afraid of the bees to come here alone. She wishes she weren’t. She likes Adaar’s eyes, too. And his hands.”

 

“Naturally,” Dorian says and takes the jars. Now that the blackberries have vanished into whatever delicacy Adaar is preparing, there is room in the basket. He straightens back up and watches as Cole gently nudges an errant bee out of the open kitchen window. “You really just do want to help, don’t you?” He is curious despite himself. He has never met a person quite like Cole - even if he isn't really a person at all. 

 

Cole cocks his head to the side as if he has to think about the question. “You don’t think it’s possible. To be like me.” 

 

“Not possible? Perish the thought! I gave up on the idea of impossible a long time ago.” The words taste like a lie but Cole doesn't mention it. “ _Unlikely_ might be the better term.”

 

Another pause. “I am not very likely.” 

 

Dorian cannot help but smile at that. “No, you’re not. Ah, don’t look so crestfallen. None of us are very likely when you think about it.” He puts a hand on his own chest. “A dashing Tevinter pariah, a Vashoth beekeeper and a… Cole. We make quite the group of unlikely if you ask me.” 

 

He thinks he detects something like a smile on the pale boy’s face as he ducks his head and hides behind the brim of his hat. His cheeks are so gaunt when he raises his head, the hollows of them darker now that the sun has moved to the other side of the cottage. It’s little wonder Adaar wants to feed him up. A flash of displeasure crosses Cole’s face at the mere suggestion of thought. 

 

“Now, how will you survive if you don’t eat,” Dorian clucks his tongue.

 

“I don’t need to.”

 

“Surely everybody needs to.”

 

“But not  my  body. It’s real, but it isn’t, not in the way yours is. He worries, even though he doesn’t need to. He cares. It would make him happy if I ate. It would make me happy if he would stop trying.”

 

Dorian holds up a hand. “Yes, alright, we’ve established this eccentricity of yours. Could we perhaps revisit that first bit? The part about the body that doesn’t need to eat to survive.” Though, judging by all the flesh stuck to his bones, Dorian might consider such a thing not entirely true.

 

Adaar picks that moment to fill the open doorway, dusting off his arms. “I put the boxes in the shed for you, Cole,” he says and starts to wash his hands in the washbasin. 

 

When Dorian turns around, the boy is gone once more. He does not reappear for another hour and Adaar spends the time teaching Dorian how to form small satchel of dough which he then fills with the blackberries. He should be better at this, he thinks, considering the smaller size of his fingers. And without all the claws. But his sad attempts keep falling apart until Adaar takes over with a good-natured laugh. 

 

They work in silence for a while. Adaar twisting and folding his pastries while Dorian leans back against the table and picks dried flakes of dough from his palms. 

 

“You know,” Adaar suddenly says without looking up, “I'm supposed to extend another invitation.” There is something deliberate in the way he fixes his eyes on the pastries in front of him. “Josephine was very insistent this time.”

 

“Is that so?” Dorian watches the tips of Adaar’s ears darken. “I hear your friends still think I’m a figment of your imagination.” 

 

The corner of Adaar’s lips quirks up as he scatters more flour on the counter. “I’m afraid they do. At least now I have another witness to vouch for me.” 

 

“So Cole’s word carries a lot of weight among your group?” 

 

“You’d be surprised.”

 

“By who, Cole? Hardly. He’s such a perfectly ordinary boy.” 

 

Adaar dimples at the table, his hands toiling away with blackberries and dough. Dorian steals a few of the berries when Adaar isn’t looking, and then a few more when he’s caught. “You’ve left my hands idle,” he says, examining his nails. A few are stained purple. It’s a slight offence compared to the claws Adaar sports, so dark a purple they’re nearly black. The care with which they pack the dough is nearly as endearing as it is amusing to watch.

 

“We’ve blackberry bushes near the villa,” he says quite suddenly, realizing it almost exactly as he says it. “They run along the back, beyond the fence. I’ve seen the servants’ children picking from my window. Mother wouldn’t stand for them inside her garden, of course. Too common.” He has Adaar’s full attention with that, eyes locked and hands still. Dorian blinks. “I take it you like blackberries?”

 

“I -” Adaar says, and Dorian could swear his little pointed ears perk. “Yes. I do.”

 

Interesting. Dorian rotates his hand to ponder his nails from a different angle. “I don’t suppose you’d like some for yourself.”

 

Adaar halts in his movements, a small packet of dough falling apart underneath his hands. “I…” One of his eyebrows quirks up. “Are you offering me a blackberry bush?” 

 

“Is that so strange?” Dorian says and steals another berry from the bowl on the counter. “If you are interested that is. There are more than enough. And I’d rather see the berries used for something as charming as your baking than having them rot on the bush.” 

 

Adaar smiles, a delightful hint of color in his cheeks. “If that's the case, I would love to. It has been a while since I replanted something as big as a blackberry bush, however.” 

 

“You wound me if you think I’d let you do this without my qualified assistance!” Dorian exclaims in faked outrage that only serves to make Adaar’s smile even wider. “After all those hours spent laboring in your herb beds!” 

 

With practiced movement, Adaar continues to fold and twist the dough, fixing his eyes on his work. “I would make sure to repay you,” he says, his voice soft. “More pastries perhaps? A blackberry pie?”

 

“I would certainly hope so.” Dorian turns his head and looks out of the window, almost casually. “And while you're there, you might be interested in seeing the rest of the esteemed Pavus estate? Inspect those Tevinter flowers your buzzing charges have decided to favor above all others?” 

 

“They have a refined taste,” Adaar agrees, thick arms coated in flour. “I accept your invitation.”

 

“As well you should, considering how your little fellows have already made themselves quite at home.”

 

Cole has yet to reappear by the time the sun has set so low in the sky that the kitchen seems more shadow than shape, and Adaar sees Dorian off with a basket of blackberry-stuffed honeycakes to share at his leisure. He’s hardly beyond the lavender field before he has one in hand, cursing himself mildly when a thick drip of blueberry juice trails down his chin. Irritating, but of little consequence. There is something to be said for being alone in the darkening woods if one can’t help but eat like a toddling child.

 

“You’re not alone,” comes a dreamy voice to his left that nearly sends Dorian headlong into a tree. Magic crackles at his fingertips before he extinguishes it with a hiss. 

 

“We must put a bell on you,” he says, forcibly relaxing the tensed muscles of his jaw. Cole’s gait by his side suits him well - two parts fumbling for his gawkish limbs, one part soundless whisper over the trodden earth, as though floating away with his own head. 

 

“I’d like a bell,” Cole decides after a moment of contemplation walking with Dorian. “Cold hard metal, but it sings.”

 

“I’d wager Josephine sells some in that quaint little shop of hers.” Dorian steps over a particularly gnarly root sticking out of the ground. “And we have to make sure it goes with that hat of yours.” 

 

“She does not,” Cole says, real regret in his voice. “But little animal figurines. I like the bunnies the most.” He slips behind a tree and for a moment, he is out of Dorian’s sight before he reappears a few steps ahead. “She has wooden ducks too,” he says, as if that should mean something to Dorian. 

 

“You know her well then?” he asks instead. Not that he is really surprised. 

 

Cole thinks about it for a moment, falling back into step next to him. “Gold and blue and sea spray in her face. Waves like mountains. She misses the sea. The fields look like ocean to her sometimes. But different.” He cocks his head to the side like he is listening to something. “She misses the warm skin too. The taste of salt. The taste of…”

 

“Yes, I think that's quite enough.” Dorian looks at Cole, curious once again. “So you can really hear them all?” 

 

“No,” Cole says but offers no explanation. “And hearing is not knowing.” 

 

“I suppose not.” Dorian sighs and tries to focus on the uneven ground beneath his feet again. A face full of blackberry juice is enough embarrassment for one day. Even with Cole as the only witness. 

 

They walk in silence for a while. True silence in Cole’s case as he hardly makes a sound on the forest ground. 

 

“She wants you to come,” Cole says. “You think she isn’t sincere but she is.” 

 

Dorian does not even need to ask for clarification. “Ah, this again.” 

 

“You don’t know if you want to come, but you might. You’d like being there. You’d be welcome.”

 

“Yes, so I’m told. Perhaps we could talk about the boundaries of personal thought for a moment instead...”

 

“You’d like them, and they’d like you. You hide the hurt and the bad behind laughter, and your heart is kind. They can understand that.”

 

“This is shockingly intimate conversation from someone I’ve only just met.”

 

“You were afraid before you met Adaar, too.” Cole leaps nimbly over a monstrous root, which Dorian walks around. “It isn’t the same kind of fear, and you wouldn’t be the same kind of friends, I don’t think, but -”

 

“Introspection out of winter is gauche. I’ll attend your tea party if it pleases you.”

 

Cole turns around and Dorian almost stumbles at the abrupt stop. The boy ducks his head, almost like a little bow. “It would,” he says. “Adaar too. He hides his disappointment behind smiles but he is not as good at it as you.” 

 

“I could see as much,” Dorian says but the back of his neck feels uncomfortably warm all of a sudden. 

 

“Then I will tell him that you’ll come with us. He will be happy. Excited, I think.”

 

“Who wouldn’t be? I’m an excellent guest. Good-looking, charming, with an wealth of entertaining anecdotes. Also incredibly humble, in case you couldn’t tell.” He steps around Cole and keeps heading up the path while talking. “I should bring a gift for the lady of the house, don’t you think? Flowers seem redundant, seeing as she sells them herself in that peculiar little shop of hers.”

 

There is no answer and when he turns around, there is no Cole. 

 

“This will take some getting used to,” he says to himself, or maybe to the forest around him, before continuing his way home. 


	5. Chapter 5

The facts are these: It’s dark, but he can see, and there are trees. These things are all well and good, but utterly frivolous compared to the vision before Dorian that tugs at him like a tether.

 

He stumbles through the clearing toward Adaar, who smiles and smiles and lifts a clawed hand. “Dorian,” he says, and the claws drip with honey.

 

“Mellitus,” Dorian thinks, and thinks he says, and Adaar’s dimples grow impossibly deep as though he understands.

 

“Try some,” says he, his palm overflowing from the golden drip. Waste not want not, as they say. Whoever they are. Dorian doesn’t dwell on it overmuch as he picks his way across the sun-dappled clearing without a thought to where the moon has gone.

 

Neither does he fuss when a sticky hand rises to touch his face, tilting his head and coaxing Dorian’s lips apart. A note of praise flows through Adaar to Dorian, and when a pair of claws light upon his tongue, Dorian eagerly closes his lips around them. He draws back slowly, and tries to recall all he knows of seduction until the wide palm at the small of his back shatters what brittle focus he had. “Please,” he says, though his mouth is stuffed with honeyed fingers.

 

Adaar just smiles and the sight is like the sun, too bright, too much. Dorian closes his eyes and runs his tongue along Adaar’s fingers as he pulls back. They are thick and soft and indescribably sweet and the thought, hazy as it is, is enough to make something inside him clench almost painfully tight.

 

The fingers are gone and leave him panting, lips parted and glazed with honey. He opens his eyes to find Adaar’s dark and deep and closer than expected. The freckles on his cheeks are stars and the closer he looks the more they dance before his eyes. “Please,” he says once more, not sure what he is pleading for.  

 

Adaar leans toward him, his horns and his eyes and his dancing freckles eclipsing the moon that isn’t there. Is he going to… Dorian’s heart beats furiously in his chest but he cannot imagine it. Instead, Adaar’s breath fans over the skin of his jaw and when those lips meet his neck, Dorian can do nothing but grasp the fabric of Adaar’s shirt with both hands.

 

One hand on his back and the other at the nape of his neck, sticky fingers weaving into his hair. Dorian doesn't mind. How could he when these steady hands are all that keep him from floating up and up and into the sky.

 

He’s drowning in syrup until he isn’t, until Adaar bites and bites until he’s eaten Dorian away.

 

The woods are a bed of stars, Adaar’s freckles among them, and Dorian himself might as well be stardust, or exploding magic, immolating from the inside as Adaar lifts him up by the backs of his thighs like he weighs nothing at all, and -

 

And Dorian wakes, wide-eyed and panting and so hard he might die. How long has it been since he’s woken like a teenager to dreams of thickly muscled men, and there, that’s just answered the question for him. He drags a palm over his face and stifles a groan. Poorly. (And, never one to deny himself for long, slips a hand under the sheets and most assuredly does not think of horns and just-sharp-enough teeth on his neck as he brings himself off before the rising sun can assault his eyes.)

 

He bathes himself with salts that dissolve and woodsy oils that seep into his skin and erase the scent of lonely sex and repression with something more palatable before he declares himself fit to leave his rooms.

 

But the empty pit in his stomach stays with him through the morning, even after devouring three of the cook’s freshly baked buns, straight from the oven. When she offers him honey from a familiar jar, he politely refuses and manages to turn his head before she can see him blush. He knows the embarrassment will not last but for now, he cannot bear the taste without thinking of something sweeter.

 

He leaves the breakfast table before his mind can wander farther and pushes open the double doors leading to the garden. The dining room is far too large for one person anyway, and the big empty table only makes him weary and unreasonably irritable.

 

The fresh air is just what he needs, still brisk from the night and thick with the scent of flowers. There is still dew on the grass in the places the sun has yet to reach and he takes care to find a dry path down to the lower terrace. He's not surprised to find that some of Adaar’s bees are already busy at work, just as he imagines their beekeeper is. He's never been to Adaar's place this early - usually content with sleeping in and strolling by the cottage around noon. But he knows that Adaar rises early, judging by the amount of baked goods that normally await Dorian whenever he arrives.

 

The thought leads to an imagine in his mind: Adaar in the morning, eyelids heavy from sleep, and his voice a soft mumble. Perhaps he would wear that cotton shirts that Dorian woke to wearing in Adaar's bed after his incident. Or perhaps he wouldn't wear a shirt at all - just a pair of trousers, hanging low on his hips.

 

It’s a dangerous path and Dorian banishes the thought to the back of his mind. Perhaps some part of his dream still clings to him. Like a limpet or particular pesky relative after too much wine.

 

So early in the day, the warmth of the sun is pleasant rather than stifling, and the ambient birdsong is almost charming. The walk does him a world of good, and by the time he reaches the cottage in the clearing, his mind and conscience are practically spotless.

 

The window to the kitchen is thrown open, and feeling rather emboldened by his lifted mood, Dorian leans through on his elbows.

 

He’s greeted by a broad, bare expanse of shoulders, Adaar’s hair hanging long and loose down his back. Dorian finds himself a little too interested in the way the muscles in his arms shift when Adaar reaches up into a cupboard.

 

“Good morning,” says Adaar, without looking. Startled into action, Dorian answers with just a touch too much cheer.

  
“And to you! How did you know I’d arrived? I was going to surprise you.”

 

“Your scent on the breeze,” Adaar says, turning then with a comically tiny jar of jam in his massive hand. There’s a drowsy sort of smile on his face when he continues, “And your footfalls aren’t silent.”

 

“You would dare to suggest the scion of House Pavus isn't dainty of step?”

 

“You don’t sneak, Dorian. You swagger.”

 

“My, we’re rather honest today, aren’t we? In that case, your hair’s a mess, and there’s a pillow crease on the side of your face. _Someone’s_ enjoyed a morning abed.” He absolutely isn’t letting his mind wander farther.

 

Dorian may be imagining things but he thinks he spots the slightest hint of color shooting up to Adaar’s ears as he turns around to place the jam on the kitchen table. “Even I allow myself a late morning from time to time.”

 

“As you should. You cannot be so tirelessly diligent _all_ of the time. It makes the rest of us look bad.” Dorian waits for Adaar to take the bait but he just stifles a yawn behind one of his massive hands and slumps down into a chair. “Not a restful night then, I take it?”

 

“I’m afraid not,” Adaar says apologetically, as if his exhaustion were something for which to be contrite.

 

Dorian cocks his head to the side. “Restless dreams?” He could kick himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. Quickly, he seals his lips as to keep more words from falling out. Words that would only remind him of his own dream, so expertly pushed to the back of his mind.

 

Adaar looks up and for two excruciatingly long heartbeats just... _stares_ at him. When he finally ducks his head and grabs a piece of bread from the basket on the table, Dorian is sure that his ears are at least two shades darker than they normally are. “Not exactly,” Adaar says. “It was just unusually warm last night, I suppose.”

 

Dorian makes a noncommittal noise, uncertain how to steer the conversation into safer waters. But Adaar relieves him of this burden when he shakes his head and a wide if still a little tired smile.

 

“I'm a poor host. Please come in. I was just about to have breakfast.”

 

The mere idea of someone calling Adaar a bad host is enough to make Dorian snort rather inelegantly as he makes his way into the cottage. The door is unlocked, as usual. He enters the kitchen and takes a seat opposite of Adaar, who is already busy spreading a thick layer of jam on his bread.

 

“I've eaten,” Dorian explains when Adaar gives him a quizzical look. “But if you don’t mind, I'd still keep you company.”

 

Fifteen minutes later finds Dorian with a thick slice of honey bread anyway, his cup of spiced tea steaming up to warm his face when the summer breezes still. He’s not surprised. Adaar licks his fingers clean when he’s finished eating, and Dorian absolutely does not watch. He does, however, take great interest in watching Adaar tie his hair up in a complicated series of knots, navigating expertly around his horns.

 

He’s taken from his trance by Adaar’s low voice, and his hand tightens ever so slightly around the teacup. “Cole told me you accepted his invitation to Josephine’s lunch.”

 

“Ah yes, that.”

 

“He can be persuasive when he wants to be.”

 

“ _Persuasive_ is a poor word for it. He’s like a war dog with his teeth sunk in.”

 

Adaar dimples, his face lit up in gold in the ambitious morning sunlight, and it’s really quite unfair. “I know the decent thing to do would be to remind that you really aren't obligated to come, despite Cole. But I am really just too pleased.” If he feels any shame at all about this confession, he hides it well.

 

“It would be indeed the decent thing to do,” Dorian agrees. “But I will forgive you this faux pas. Just this once. If you promise not to let me go alone today like some poor fool who was only invited out of pity.”

 

Adaar’s laugh fills the small kitchen and shoots straight through Dorian until he thinks he can feel it resounding in his bones. “I wouldn't have let you go alone either way. But alright. If this is what it takes for you to forget my impertinence…”

 

Dorian finishes his tea and hides his smile behind his cup. “We shall see.”

 

Adaar seems intent on feeding the entire gathering. It's what Dorian must surmise after watching him toil the morning away on loaves of honeyed bread and little cakes and and a veritable mountain of cookies, all stashed away nice and neat in a basket roughly the size of a horse cart. Dorian likes to think he helps, but kneading dough isn't in his area of expertise. The service he provides goes more in the way of moral support and taste testing critique.

 

He packs away a jar of honey as long as Dorian's forearm as well before they're off at midday.

 

They walk into town down an unfamiliar path. It isn't so much a main road as it is a well-beaten path. It's wide enough for two people to walk comfortably side by side, even with Adaar's proportions. The wildflowers that spring up along the sides of the trampled earth are wide and white, and bountiful. Adaar pauses several times on their journey to pluck them from the ground, resting them within his massive basket until one by one they become a thick bouquet of lace nearly twice the size of Dorian’s head, like something out of a backwoods southerner’s bridal dream.

 

Their use becomes apparent when they step into the township proper. It starts with a squeal from afar, and then a tiny shout, and children poke their heads from their gardens and minders to meet them on the path. Some spare a curious look for Dorian, but mostly they are intent on Adaar, who crouches there in the dirt to meet them.

 

Three pairs of little hands turn to seven, to twelve, and all of the flowers are gone just as quickly as half the cookie mountain. Sticky hands and crummy fingers sully Adaar’s clothes and his skin as they cling before their parents and elders shoo them off, demurring from Adaar’s proffered basket.

 

Just as quickly as the stampede came, it disperses, and Adaar leads further into the town.

 

“So, are we going to pretend that didn’t just happen, or that it’s normal?” Dorian says conversationally, brushing a smattering of crumbs from Adaar’s shoulder.

 

Adaar blushes all the way up to the tips of his ears but the smile on his face betrays him. “It's... become a kind of ritual,” he confesses, shifting the weight of the basket from one arm to the other. “An unusual one, I’ll admit.”

 

“Oh, unusual is not the word I would have used to describe this assault. But we’ll go with it if that pleases you.” Dorian plucks a single leftover flower from the basket. Squashed between a jar of honey and a loaf of bread, it survived the horde with only a minimal loss of petals. “They really do love you around here,” he says. “I’m surprised your cottage isn't full of children at all hours.”

 

“Perhaps it would be if I lived closer to the village.” Adaar’s smile widens into a grin. “In all honesty, I think the reclusiveness is part of the charm. They would tire quickly of me if they saw me every day.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure they would be bored to death by your flowers and your honey and your baked good brand of charm.”

 

Adaar just laughs and they walk in silence for a while. Dorian thinks he recognizes some of the houses they pass, but it all looks so similar in its picturesque quaintness, he cannot be sure.

 

To Dorian’s surprise, it isn’t Josephine who meets them at the door to her shop. The surprising part is not that someone other than the proprietor greets them, but that the welcoming committee is a slight blonde elf who launches herself in Adaar’s direction. The attack falls short when she sees the basket in his hands and Dorian by his side.

 

“Sera,” Adaar greets, and the elf lets out a long peal of giggles as she looks between Dorian and the basket.

 

“Fancy man, fancy treats, all so ruddy posh. I’ll take one and you can keep the other, yeah? Give over now, come on, before the others see and want to _share_.”

 

They follow her into the shop and through the back door. Dorian feels a twinge of nerves in the pit of his stomach as they climb the winding staircase up to the first floor. Never let it be said that Dorian Pavus is intimidated by the prospect of spending the afternoon with complete strangers. But strangers who happen to be Adaar’s friends feels like different matter altogether.

 

Like many shop owners, Josephine uses the rooms above the store for her personal living space. They're surprisingly spacious and unsurprisingly Antivan in style. Gold and blue dominates the decor, along with a few trinkets Dorian recognizes from the store.

 

Josephine emerges from a door in the back, carrying a tablet with glasses. She looks genuinely surprised to see them. Or perhaps just to see Dorian. “Oh, you came!” she exclaims just before regaining her composure and smiling sweetly. “How delightful!”

 

“And they brought treats!” Sera hoists the basket on a nearby table, causing the jars within inside to clink loudly against each other.

 

“Of course they did.” Josephine nods towards the large shuttered doors in the back. “The others are already on the balcony. Take these glasses outside, will you?”

 

“A balcony as well?” Dorian cocks his head. “A true Antivan oasis in the middle of the Free Marches. Who would have thought? If I didn’t know any better I’d suspect magic at work.”

 

Josephine laughs and hands the tablet over into Adaar’s steady hands. “You would know about that, Young Master Pavus. Would you mind helping me chill the wine?”

 

“Not a moment in the door, and I‘ve already been tasked with menial labor. What other southern barbarianisms should I ready my sensibilities for?” he says in mock outrage. Josephine‘s beatific smile never falls, though that might in part be due to Adaar‘s soft laughter as he leaves Dorian for the balcony.

 

Despite Josephine‘s pointed tut, Sera hops onto the table, sitting cross-legged on the edge. It looks precarious to Dorian, but he gets the feeling she doesn‘t mind trivialities like _safety_ or _decorum_ very much at all. In point of fact, she takes two cookies from the basket and takes a bite of both at once, all the while staring holes into his head.

 

Ever the showman, Dorian offers her a dazzling smile before he draws his hands over the bottles with a flourish that is both elegant and entirely frivolous. Josephine coos, and Sera laughs charmingly through a full mouth.

 

“Look at you, fancy pants! They are, right? Ooh, I bet they are. Your pants, I mean. Silk or unicorn tears or whatever little princes like ‘round their arses, cupping their -”

 

“Sera!” Josephine interrupts, flustered. Sera winks and grins with such cheek that Dorian can‘t help but smile in turn.

 

“We prefer dragon vein lace in Tevinter,” he tells her. “We have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

 

Sera seems stunned for a moment, eyes wide and unblinking. Then she throws back her head in laughter, cookie crumbs flying through the air and landing on Josephine’s pristine floor. Josephine just shakes her head, but her smile betrays her.

 

He helps carry the freshly chilled bottles outside and as he steps out onto the balcony, he finds he feels much calmer. Josephine gives him another encouraging smile and somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if that has been her plan all along. Not that he has time to ponder it with all eyes suddenly on him.

 

The balcony is just as tastefully decorated as the rest of the house, with beautifully cut rose bushes lining the railing and a long table laid with fine porcelain and silver. Adaar looks up as soon as they step through the doors, his eyes finding Dorian’s. He's standing next to two women - a stern brunette who looks like she could break him in half if she put her mind to it, and a redhead with sharp eyes and a slow smile. Adaar turns to him and opens his mouth as if to speak. Before he can even get a single word out, however, a voice bellows, loud enough to make him flinch.

 

“Hah! So he does exist.”

 

On the other end of the table sits the biggest Qunari Dorian has ever seen. He has only one eye and his face is rutted with scars. He is also in the process of fishing a handful of cookies out of Sera’s basket.

 

“I believe that reaction has nearly run its course,” Dorian says primly, handing the drinks over to the hostess before he obligingly steps forward for Adaar’s introductions. Cassandra regards him with as much open skepticism as Leliana hides behind one of the most convincing smiles Dorian has ever seen. It surprises him not at all to be told she’s Orlesian.

 

The Iron Bull - aptly named - gives a jaunty salute with a cookie, further igniting Sera’s laughter as she comes to join them.

 

“Varric is late,” Cassandra says, her accent thickly Nevarran. “Again.” Her exasperation dissipates when Adaar spreads honey over a small cake and offers it with a smile.

 

“I’m sure he will come up with an excuse so elaborate we'll forget all about his tardiness.”

 

She huffs and her scowl is impressive. “A lie, you mean.”

 

“A story,” Adaar placates.

 

“She likes the stories.” The voice to Dorian’s left is soft but startles him enough to almost drop his glass, spilling wine over his hand. “She says she seeks the truth but she likes the way he weaves around it.”

 

“Cole,” Dorian says and picks up a napkin from the table to dab at the hem of his wine-soaked sleeve. “Have we not talked about putting a bell on you?”

 

“We have.” Even for this Cole has not changed his usual apparel, strange hat still on his head and his sleeves long enough to reach his fingertips. Dorian has to admit that there is something soothing about seeing his face amid the group of strangers.

 

The infamous Varric arrives a good while and a glass of wine later, after Leliana herself departs with a full loaf of bread and two kisses from Josephine, and just as Adaar predicted, proceeds to tell them a story so fantastical nobody even mentions his lateness. He also brings a crate full of liquor utterly unsuited for day drinking, which only seems to endear him further.

 

If Dorian isn‘t mistaken, he‘s fairly certain Sera eats twice as much as either qunari among them, and that is easily one of the most interesting parts of the whole affair.

 

Adaar, for his part, is content in his own silence while his friends carry on their fair share of conversation between them. He keeps a better eye on Dorian‘s teacup than Dorian does, topping it with something spicy and dark and entirely gorgeous. It's almost definitely a qunari brew, but none Dorian has tasted before.

 

“You like that?” the Iron Bull says, leaning forward over the table. Sera hangs over one massive shoulder and nicks a slice of honey cake from his plate, but he pretends not to notice. “Even ‘Vints have good taste sometimes.”

 

“Oh, but only very rarely,” Dorian says. The Bull grins.

 

“Smuggled from Seheron. I know a girl. Could get you some, for the right price.”

 

“We haven’t even known each other for a whole afternoon,” Dorian says and feigns shock. “Why do I feel like you are already cajoling me into all sorts of illegal activity?”

 

The Iron Bull’s grin doesn't waver as he leans back and folds his arms in front of his massive chest. “Not... _illegal_. Just a little unorthodox, methodologically.” He scratches his beard, looking oddly proud all of a sudden. “But I take it that means no?”

 

“Now, now.” Dorian takes another sip from his cup and then flashes him a smile over the rim. “I didn’t say that.”

 

“Enough of that,” Josephine says and makes a waving gesture as if she wanted to snatch the offending words out of the air. “Young Master Pavus will think we are a gathering of scoundrels if you keep on like this.”

 

“You say that like half the merchandise in your store didn't come through Cadash’s _unorthodox_ channels, Ruffles.” Varric’s smile is as charming as they come, even in the face of Josephine’s dainty frown.

 

“I’m not sure if I should take offense,” she says and the way she cocks her head reads like a challenge.

 

It's a playful sort of tension that settles over the table, Sera grinning wickedly and nudging the Bull. Cutting displays of power are usually as much part of a proper Tevinter soirée as expensive wine and sly comments on the host’s fashion choices. But Dorian doesn't know these people well enough, and the Free Marches have proven to be so very different in so many ways in the last few weeks. He leans forward in his seat anyway and breaks off a piece of honey cake from the plate in the middle of the table.

 

“On the contrary, I would think,” he says and smiles at Josephine. “It just seems like good business sense to me.” He lifts his cup to her.

 

Not a heartbeat later, Josephine laughs and gently clinks her own cup against his. “A perfectly diplomatic response,” she says and the edge to her smile is not unpleasant at all.

 

“Damn.” Bull leans back in his chair with a disappointed grunt. “And here I thought I‘d finally get to see Josephine break out the old Antivan one-two.”

 

“I don‘t think they use their fists for that, Tiny.”

 

“Certainly not in the way you‘re thinking,” Dorian says with a delicate sip of his tea. The table goes silent, except for Sera‘s sudden, hysterical laughter.

 

“‘Draste‘s tits, I‘ve got a story, right?” she cackles, but Cassandra swiftly intercedes.

 

“Blackwall is the only person in Thedas who wants to hear you regale your tales of... _Circumstance_.”

 

“Hasn‘t gotten old for me yet,” Bull corrects, all good-natured smiles. Sera knocks her fist against his. Cassandra makes a noise that perfectly illustrates her disgust.

 

“You‘re on the cusp of vulgarity, and I for one am interested,” Dorian says. Sera and the Bull beam his way, all teeth, and their mounting barrage of indecency is flattened by Josephine‘s sudden,

 

“Oh! I almost forgot: the Wildervale Festival!”

 

Across the table, Adaar perks up. Sera‘s objections to the interruption die instantly.

 

“Right,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “Who‘s making what, and how many favors d‘you owe me?”

 

“In the negative dozens, and I don‘t mean that collectively,” Varric assures her, and she wilts over Bull‘s shoulder. “The better question is: how many favors do we owe Dagna?”

 

“Widdle!” she gasps, perking up instantly. “Oh, that‘s brilliant! Miss Fancy-Poofs here‘s in deep, after that blown glass -”

 

“ _The festival_ ,” Josephine interrupts, cheeks dark, “is merely three months away. The committee began their preparations in the early spring. I have taken the liberty of securing six vendor lots for our region. The family Cadash -”

 

“ - Paid you a visit the minute the reservation was approved,” Varric said.

 

“Quite.” Josephine gives a brisk nod and Bull leans back in his chair with a laugh. “Cassandra has kindly offered her assistance with my own stall. Four remain among you before I offer... whatever is left to -”

 

“The highest bidder.” Varric grins slyly at Josephine‘s diplomatic demurring.

 

“Of course, Master Tethras. I am, after all, a businesswoman.”

 

“To the core,” Varric agrees, tapping his cup to Cassandra‘s. She clearly isn‘t expecting it, and a small splash of tea soaks the tart on her saucer. Her scowl is met with only smiles.

 

“I assumed you would be taking one as well,” Josephine continues to Adaar, all business. Cole materializes out of seemingly nowhere behind Adaar.

 

“Yes,” Cole says, and Adaar laughs a soft, short laugh.

 

“Yes,” he confirms. Josephine brightens.

 

Dorian leans forward and tries to catch up with the conversation that has slipped from him quicker than an eel. “What's this about a festival? Please tell me it’s some sort of charming local tradition right out of a children’s book.”

 

Josephine’s smiles falters just a little bit. “Has Adaar not told you about the festival?” She turns her head and the look she gives Adaar is positively scolding. “Now I feel terribly rude talking over your head like this.”

 

“I haven’t had the chance yet,” Adaar says but embarrassment colors his cheeks. It’s as charming as ever, and in a shameful way, Dorian's somewhat pleased he spoke up. Less so when Adaar's eyes, entirely contrite, turn to him. “I didn't mean to leave you out of this.”

 

“Not at all.” He leans over the table to pat Adaar on the arm. “Three months, you said? You couldn’t even know if I’d still be here then.”

 

Now there is something he truly regrets, as Adaar’s expression falls. With someone as bad at hiding their emotions as Adaar, disappointment is easy to spot. Dorian pulls his hand away and ignores the tight feeling in his chest.

 

Thank the Maker for Josephine who cuts in with an apologetic smile and genuine curiosity. “Yes, the festival is at the end of the summer. Are you considering staying this long?”

 

Dorian is glad to be able to focus on something else than Adaar’s downcast expression. “I hadn't given it much thought,” he says, and then realizes how true that actually is. He hasn't planned much at all. Even his arrival here was the result of a last minute decision. And since the only thing seemingly certain looming in the future is his inevitable return to Minrathous, he's avoided thinking about the future at all.

 

“Well, surely there are ways we could convince you to give it some thought?”

 

“My stay here has been surprisingly pleasant so far.” Dorian tries not to look at Adaar even though he itches to see his reaction. To see if the disappointment still lingers in his eyes. “So I don't see why I shouldn’t extend it for a while longer. Especially if that little festival of yours is as delightful as it sounds.”

 

“Oh, you _have_ to stay,” Sera says, and moves on from Bull’s shoulders to Adaar’s. Clearly, Bull’s dwindling cookie remains can’t compare to the puff pastry she spies on Adaar’s plate. “Rough it with the rest of us normals for a bit. Plus Josie and Lady Cheekbones.”

 

Adaar hands his pastry to her without preface, and she latches onto him like a magnet. Cassandra makes a disgruntled noise at the nickname, or the behavior, or both, before she replaces the stolen goods with a raspberry tart. Adaar offers her a smile.

 

“With the proper incentive, I suppose I might sleep on it.”

 

“‘s not very nice,” Sera says through a full mouth. “‘e’s a _person,_ moustache.”

 

She cackles messily at her own joke, and Varric coughs into his fist, grin wide and roguish.

 

“If no one else is interested in reserving a space,” Josephine swiftly intervenes, just as Bull leans forward to incite Sera’s tawdry humor further, “shall we consider the matter closed?”

 

“I’d wager some serious coin that my publisher’ll want me to do a signing again,” Varric says, resting his cheek on a fist. “So save one for me, Ruffles.”

 

Dorian pauses, a golden apple pressed against his lips. “You’re a writer?”

 

“Oh, didn’t I say?” Varric asks in a tone that makes it clear he knows he did not. “Varric Tethras. My sales might not be so high in Tevinter, but…”

 

“No... no I believe I _have_ heard of you.” Dorian’s surprised to note that it is true. “What was it… The Champion of Kirkwall?”

 

“Among others,” Cassandra says. There’s enough passion in her voice that several eyes turn to her, to which she ducks her head to glower her blueberry scone into dust. Varric, for his part, looks entirely too smug about it.

 

“Among others,” he agrees cordially. Cassandra’s ears go red.

 

“Now that I know the author, I think I might have to read some of them,” Dorian says. “It only seems polite.”

 

Varric lifts his hands in defeat. “My publisher would kill me if I were to even try to discourage you. I believe the local bookstore keeps some of my romances in stock.” The look he gives Cassandra is hard to miss. “Some of them are pretty terrible, I’m afraid.”

 

Cassandra looks deathly offended, but settles for picking apart her scone and ignoring Varric’s pointed chuckle.

 

They finish their meal long before their conversations, the pleasant back-and-forth between people who have known each other for years. Dorian leans back in his chair and contents himself with listening. He has eaten too much and smiled even more and isn't quite sure which of those is responsible for the warm feeling in his chest.

 

Josephine is the first to rise - not counting Sera, who hasn't sat still once throughout the meal. She brushes away some non-existent crumbs from her dress and picks up some of the dishes. “I’m sure this surprises no one but there is a lot of food left over. Please, help yourselves to anything you'd like to bring home.”

 

As expected, there are no objections. Adaar rises from his chair just as Dorian gets up and takes a basket of scones from Josephine. “Let me help you,” Dorian says. “I’m starting to get used to manual labor.”

 

Josephine laughs and lets him take the basket and a tray of pastries. “You’re too kind, Young Master Pavus.”

 

Adaar picks up a staggering pile of dishes and they follow Josephine into the kitchen.

 

Josephine‘s kitchen is situated snugly in a room beyond the shop, through a door below the stairs. It‘s quaint in a homey village sort of way, and Adaar seems to know his way around it well. Josephine frees Dorian‘s arms, and when he draws himself up to Adaar‘s side, he’s gently shooed away.

 

“Nonsense,” he says. “I must do something.”

 

“You‘re my guest,” Adaar says, pumping water into the sink basin. “Go, take what you like before Sera does. I‘ll join you again shortly.”

 

Dorian tries not to be too terribly distracted by the way he rolls his sleeves up to each elbow. “Now, really -”

 

A low chuckle fills the room from the doorway. “Even if you could change his mind with enough pestering,” the Bull says, arms laden with empty baskets and dirty dishes, “it‘s sound advice. Cassandra‘s holding some of those tarts hostage, but you have the advantage of new blood.”

 

Josephine unburdens him in a few short trips - it can‘t be the easiest thing, to squeeze in through the door with those horns and those shoulders.

 

“Tempting,” Dorian says, ignoring the Bull‘s smirk, “but I‘m not so easily deterred.”

 

“You could use some deterring,” Adaar says, lowly, and there‘s something in that cadence that brings last night‘s dreams back in flashes. Dorian‘s toes curl in their boots, and he feels himself go warm. Fortunately, when he chances a glance at Adaar, he‘s looking meaningfully at Bull, and not at Dorian.

 

“Evidently,” Bull says and there is something almost grotesque about his grin and the way Adaar abruptly turns around to the sink. Dorian finds himself feeling truly lost for the first time this afternoon, trying to grasp a joke he isn’t even sure is there.

 

He leaves them in the kitchen, discomfort like a bad taste in his mouth. But when he steps out on the balcony once more, he is glad for the cooler air brushing against his heated cheeks. He arrives just in time to claim some of the leftover tarts before Cassandra can smuggle them into her own basket. Josephine comes up carrying two glasses of jam.

 

“It’s Adaar’s favorite,” she explains. “And I thought you might like one as well.”

 

He stores them in Adaar’s basket along with the tarts, some other pastries and fruit. It feels brazen to leave the house with almost as much food as they brought when they came in but Josephine assures him that it’s completely normal at gatherings like these.

 

He follows her down the stairs to find Adaar and Bull waiting in the store. Whatever awkwardness lingered in the kitchen seems to be completely gone. When Bull comes over to say his goodbyes, he presses a small wooden box into Dorian’s hands.

 

“Just a little bit of that tea you liked. Adaar knows where to find me if you ever want more.”

 

Adaar lifts the basket from Dorian’s arm without a thought once they finally manage to escape the shop.

 

“Your friends are remarkably generous,” Dorian tells him as they make their way down the alley. “Where I’m from, we'd consider that highly suspicious.” He lifts a jar of blackberry jam with open scrutiny. “And this, most suspicious of all.”

 

Adaar’s quiet laugh heralds an undue sense of victory in Dorian, and he settles the jam back where it belongs.

 

“You liked the puff pastries,” Adaar says, both a question and not. Normally, when people take note of such an innocuous fancy and it isn’t for political or social gain, it can only mean one thing. Unfortunately, because it is Adaar, Dorian fears an emergence of a fourth option: he’s just observant.

 

“I certainly did. Particularly the ones with brandy creme.”

 

“Varric’s friend makes them. Dalish woman. I think she gets the brandy from a pirate.”

 

“Well, if I can’t fit into my robes after today, I know to whom I’ll send the tailor bill.”

 

“I think she would be delighted, actually. She loves to cook for people. She's even convinced I don't eat enough.”

 

Dorian’s incredulity must be plain enough on his face because Adaar just laughs again, leaving Dorian uncertain to whether he's joking or not. 

 

The long walk back to Adaar’s cottage seems even longer than usual. Dorian blames his belly full of food and the satisfying kind of exhaustion which usually befalls him after social events. It’s not unpleasant - not with Adaar right next to him and the afternoon sun warming his face.

 

“I hope you enjoyed yourself?” Adaar asks into the silence, sounding much more uncertain than he has any right to.

 

Dorian looks up. “I did,” he says. “Your friends were predictably charming and welcoming.”

 

“Only that you didn't predict it.” 

 

“No, I did not,” he confesses. “A very Tevinter trait, I’m afraid. But yes, I enjoyed myself. Next time, Cole won't need an ambush in the woods to convince me.”

 

_Next time_. It’s out before he realizes it and finds he doesn’t mind. Adaar’s smile grows a little wider and his hand finds Dorian’s elbow, his fingers brushing against him in the lightest touch.

 

“That's good to hear,” he says.

 

“Yes, I‘m sure you‘re very pleased with yourself.”

 

Adaar's mouth curves. “A little.”

 

Dorian‘s arm bumps Adaar‘s as they stroll, almost entirely, somewhat on accident.

 

The heat of the day, even in early afternoon, has already begun to recede. Beneath the shade of the grove, the breeze is even pleasant. A few birds titter from the branches, and Adaar mindfully tucks the cloth over the basket a little tighter.

 

“I feel I should return the favor,” Dorian says when Adaar‘s cottage materializes through the trees. “And before you try and convince me it isn‘t necessary, don't. I want to. I believe a proper invitation to the Pavus estate is long overdue. Are you to free tomorrow evening?”

 

Adaar ducks his head, and a low note rumbles from his chest. “I - yes. I am.”

 

“Marvelous! Then, do join me for supper. I‘ll give you a proper tour of the garden while the sun‘s still up, and one of the house when it‘s too dark to notice the stains of blood rituals past.”

 

Adaar ushers him into his home and keeps him for the afternoon, where the discussion turns to magical method and arcane theory. Dorian isn‘t sent home until he‘s loaded down with more than half the basket they came away with, and an extra jar of honey for the cook‘s daughter.

 

There‘s going to be havoc when he tells them that the beekeeper himself is stopping by.

 

How quaint has he become that he truly, truly can‘t wait.

 


	6. Chapter 6

For once, Dorian doesn’t wake to the sound of chirping birds and of the wind rustling the leaves of the trees outside his window. He's gotten used to these idyllic mornings, the sun slowly rising over the treetops and the scent of flowers creeping through the shutters. There is nothing idyllic about the distant crash that jolts him from his slumber. And certainly not about the raised voices that follow.

 

Dorian groans and shields his eyes from the sun that all of a sudden doesn’t seem quaint at all but rather altogether too bright and too much. He has not fully woken up when there is a sharp knock on his bedroom door.

 

“One moment,” he calls out, his voice still raspy from sleep. He grabs his robe on his way over and manages the requisite amount of decency when he opens the door. It’s the servant girl, the one he helped with the windows weeks ago. Ages ago, he thinks as he rubs the sleeps from his eyes and waits for her to say something. He has come to know her for her quick smiles and sharp tongue, never one to act shy or awkward around him. But now she looks almost unnerved, with red blotches on her cheeks and her arms full of hastily balled up white sheets.

 

“I am sorry to wake you, messere,” she says. “I wouldn’t have but it’s a proper mess out here.”

 

A shout comes from somewhere near the kitchen followed by something that sounds like a dresser with all its contents being toppled over.

 

“Sounds just like it.” Dorian runs his fingers through his hair, trying to sort his thoughts as well as his bedhead. “What's going on?”

 

“It’s the servants, messere?” She says it with a raised eyebrow and a tone which suggests he should know exactly what she is talking about. “The ones from Minrathous?”

 

The string of curses that comes out of his mouth is enough to bring back her grin - a small comfort in all of this, really.

 

“So soon?” he asks and she nods. “ _All_ of them?”

 

"Don't know if you're expecting more, messere. They brought the rest of your luggage as well. There have been disagreements about… where to put it all.”

 

“Fasta vass!” Of all days, of course it has to be this one. “Alright. No point in lamenting now.” He straightens his robe, a fruitless task that only gets him an amused look from the servant girl. “I’ll be with them shortly. I just need to…”

 

“Get dressed?”

 

“That would be a start, wouldn’t it?”

 

Something in him snaps taut when he hears the fluid, familiar lilt of Tevene down the hall.

 

Freshly dressed and face put to rights, he wears his robes like the aristocrat he‘s neglected since his first stroll through the woods. Something in the familiarity of his native tongue pulls his shoulders back, lifts his chin a little higher.

 

The servants from his father‘s estate manage to be more afraid of him than the hodgepodge of Marchers, Fereldans, and the lone Nevarran, and still believe themselves superior. They ignore the Villa‘s original keepers unless interaction is necessary, and oppose the common tongue, despite their fluency.

 

When they address Dorian throughout the day, they speak only Tevene, and he answers them in kind.

 

Even as he knows word will travel from any number of sources to his father, the lingering anxiety in the back of his mind isn‘t potent enough to rescind his invitation to Adaar. He informs the servants himself that they‘re preparing for a guest. With a meaningful tone, he informs all of the necessary parties that their guest is a highly esteemed member of the community. How connections in a backwoods Marcher village could benefit him matters little; they understand social leverage as an endless quest. If nothing else, Dorian can use this to his advantage.

 

Even the tension the newcomers bring can‘t dampen the chipper mood half staff is in. Even the old grouch of a gardener has a spring in his hobble, refilling his shallow water trays for the bees with careful precision. The bees are his only real helpers, he tells Dorian with a wayward glance to his actual assistant by the rose bushes, who flashes him some obscure, presumably vulgar Marcher hand gesture.

 

Dorian misses their whimsical audacity when he steps back indoors to meet his old foot servant just inside.

 

“Ah. Tacitus.” _And just when I’d finally learned to lace up my own bootstraps_ , he thinks with a resigned sort of irritation. It isn‘t Tacitus' fault, however receptive he would have been to Dorian‘s mild indignation, so Dorian sets him with enough tasks to occupy him for the next few hours at least.

 

“Use the rest of the morning to settle in,” he says, resisting the urge to rub at his temples. “Familiarize yourself with the place. I‘ll be occupied for the day, but I‘ll take a bath after lunch.”

 

Tacitus nods, but there's just the slightest hint of confusion about him. Dorian sighs. There is no need for paranoia, he tells himself, despite the tight knot of anxiety that has formed in its usual spot somewhere in the pit of his stomach. If his servants found this behavior strange, what would they have to say about him on his knees in the dirt, his hands buried in soil and absolutely, undeniably content with it? They might even find this alone more scandalous than the company he keeps nowadays. The thought almost makes him smile.

 

The morning keeps him busy enough between finding space for all of his newly-arrived belongings and supervising the unpacking. Most of the clothes he stored into these trunks and chests months ago are utterly impractical for the Free Marches. He runs his fingers along the fine stitching on a particularly splendid robe and tries to imagine himself sitting in Adaar’s cottage wearing it. Overdressed would be an understatement.

 

Once tensions die down, the estate goes quiet. He’d say it was a comfort to hear his own tongue spoken, if indeed they spoke beyond necessity in his presence at all. Cheeky though the Marchers are, they tend to look him in the eye, and don’t excuse themselves from a room simply because he’s walked in.

 

It serves as a relief to step into the kitchens when the morning is near to passing, all the hustle and bustle below that can’t be coaxed out from the servants above. A small collection of honey has accumulated on a shelf by the window, where the sunlight through the jars casts a bright shine on the opposite wall, and the honey turns to liquid gold. Lovingly arranged by the cook’s daughter, he’d presume.

 

The cook herself is entirely unbothered by the meager kitchen staff sent from Minrathous, directing them around her kitchen like they were always her own. She has one elf peeling apples at the table, and another washing blackberries to be made into jam. “It takes a delicate hand,” she tells Dorian, and pours him a cup of tea to keep him occupied.

 

He tastes roses. It’s only natural, then, to ask her to set some aside for the evening’s guest.

 

“Would you like to discuss the rest of the menu for tonight, messere?”

 

“That depends,” he says and takes another sip of his tea. “Would I have any sway over what you have undoubtedly already decided upon?”

 

She smiles sweetly. “I'm known to be open for suggestions. The reasonable ones at least, messere.”

 

He finds little to argue with when she presents him with her plan - simple local dishes appropriate for the season, adjusted with enough Tevinter spices to accommodate his and Adaar’s preference. He handpicks the wine himself, a sweet flowery rosé from Orlais.

 

Afterwards, the cook shoos him from the kitchen with enough brazenness to make the two new arrivals exchanged scandalized looks. For the lack of anything better to do, Dorian eats an early lunch and restraints himself from overseeing the sorting and shelving of the books that arrived together with the rest of his clothes. Once he starts he would not be able to stop and he doesn’t want Adaar to find him buried underneath a pile of dusty books when he arrives.

 

From the look of his washroom alone, it's obvious that Tacitus must have run out of tasks a lot earlier than Dorian anticipated. The room is freshly cleaned and the shelves lined with small pots and vials - all of Dorian’s favorite oils and bath salts. He'd run out of most of these weeks ago and doesn’t even remember having the foresight to pack them to be sent straight here.

 

The tub is already filled with water which he heats himself. He chooses lavender bath salts. It only seems appropriate.

 

It’s only when he lets himself sink into the steaming water that he becomes aware of the tension in his shoulders and neck. He forces himself to relax, to push all thoughts of Tevinter from his mind.

 

Unfortunately, the quickest tactic he can muster to do just that is to focus on the present, which is heavily biased toward Adaar. Focusing on thoughts of Adaar in the bath is a slippery slope indeed, so he thinks instead of sociopolitics, the dullest lessons of his tutelage and, arguably, among the most important.

 

Dorian must doze off, because he wakes sometime later to find fresh robes laid out for him on a raised ledge. They’re perfectly in fashion, and he knows very well that the white contrasts marvelously with his skin. He might have picked it himself for the evening, but the fact that he didn’t rankles, just a bit.

 

It’s hardly Tacitus’ fault. He’s only resuming the duties he left off when Dorian left for the Circle, and then for the South. The Dorian he works for now who dresses himself in robes of his own choosing isn’t the Dorian that left home years ago.

 

They’ll have words later, Dorian decides, and lifts himself out of the bath.

 

He takes his time waxing his moustache and reapplying the kohl around his eyes, until he’s perfectly suitable for company. The lavender scent from the washroom and the warm summer breeze through the open window does wonders for Dorian’s mood.

 

He steps out into the garden, just in time to see Adaar make his way up the hill from the woods. He must have used the gate Dorian usually uses when he visits him and something about it feels comfortably familiar. Adaar stops halfway up the hill to greet the gardener but they are too far away for Dorian to hear their conversation. A movement to his left catches his attention.

 

Tacitus and another of the new servants whose name Dorian does not remember, step onto the terrace and stop dead in their tracks when they spot Adaar.

 

Dorian hears a sharp intake of breath and feels his chest tighten. It’s not panic that he reads on his servants’ faces, but surprise. Perhaps even shock. Tacitus’ eyes flick from Adaar’s form in the distance to Dorian and back.

 

“Master Pavus,” he says, not quite a warning but something close enough. The slip in etiquette is more telling than any body language or facial expression could ever be.

 

He probably should have mentioned it. That it should be necessary alone is enough to irritate him.

 

He clicks his tongue and decides the only way is to lead by example. “Ah, our guest has arrived,” he says and is glad his tone doesn’t give away how quickly his heart is beating in his chest. “Tacitus, would you be so kind as to inform the kitchen to prepare the tea?"

 

A beat of hesitation passes, which is more than Dorian has ever witnessed with Tacitus. But finally, he nods. “Of course.”

 

Tacitus vanishes into the house and it takes another pointed look from Dorian for the other servant to follow suit.

 

Adaar reaches the upper terrace and the tension falls from Dorian’s shoulders like a heavy blanket. He’s wearing a white shirt with stitching in the Marcher fashion and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his thick freckled forearms, and light summer robes overtop. He is also carrying a basket filled with two jars of honey and at least three different kinds of pastries.

 

“You know, there are some of my countrymen who consider it bad manners to bring food to the house you’re invited to. It implies that you don’t believe our hospitality satisfactory.”

 

Adaar laughs. “I hope you’re not one of them?”

 

“Even if I were,” Dorian says and takes the basket from Adaar’s hands, “I have tasted your pastries. They're good enough to ignore etiquette for a while.”

 

He tucks the basket into his elbow, and gestures broadly toward the garden. “I promised a tour, did I not?”

 

Adaar is taken by the Tevinter horticulture, in much the way his bees are. They spot several hovering around the Vyrantium irises at the wall, and even Adaar can’t seem to keep himself from touching the soft petals of the hanging blood red geraniums.

 

“You’ve already met my gardener,” Dorian says, settling the basket on the wrought-iron table tucked away on the lower terrace, surrounded by honeysuckle. “I hope his manner wasn’t _too_ charming. His sweet disposition will be my end.”

 

“He asked after the hive,” Adaar says, settling delicately in the human-sized chair when prompted. “He’s very dedicated to the garden.”

 

“I’m under no illusions that this garden is ours at all,” Dorian agrees, and lays the spread like a proper host. By the time he’s finished emptying the basket, Tacitus has reappeared with a heavy-laden tray. Fortunately, he’s regained his composure, and sets the pot and the teacups on the table like nothing’s amiss. The cream and the sugar are set in the center, and with a delicate hand, Tacitus pours either of them a cup.

 

Adaar thanks him, and he must smell the rose petals in the brew, for his smile is delighted. Tacitus dips his head in acknowledgement, and disappears beyond the wall.

 

“He also told me that servants from Tevinter arrived just this morning.”

 

“I had no idea he was such a gossip!”

 

“If my visit is an inconvenience…”

 

Dorian stops stirring his tea and looks up. “Maker, no! A welcome distraction, in fact.”

 

Adaar watches him with the kind of focus that always makes Dorian want to shift in his chair like a nervous schoolchild. But Adaar contents himself to nodding and takes a sip of tea. He doesn’t expect an explanation but Dorian finds himself wanting to give him one anyway.

 

“I’m just not used to the… fussing anymore.” He stops, trying to think of a way to express his feelings without sounding utterly ungrateful. It turns out to be a good thing because Tacitus chooses this moment to return from behind the wall, carrying a bowl of fruit, undoubtedly another errand from the cook. He sets is down on the table and turns to take his leave.

 

Adaar smiles. “ _Gratias_.”

 

There is just the lightest hint of hesitation, the smallest flash of surprise before Tacitus dips his head once more and makes his way back to the house.

 

Dorian waits until he is out of earshot. “You speak Tevene?”

 

“That’s nearly the extent of it.” Adaar’s cheeks darken with embarrassment. “A few phrases here and there.”  

 

What his mother would think if she knew the only guest he’d entertained in his time abroad was a blushing qunari. The thought alone makes Dorian smile.

 

“And where might you have learned these phrases without extensive schooling?”

 

“My mother spoke it.” Adaar stirred his tea slowly, the teaspoon dwarfed in his massive hand. “My parents didn’t know where to begin with a magical education, but they had plenty of knowledge to pass on.”

 

Adaar doesn’t often speak of his parents. It takes active effort for Dorian to keep himself from leaning forward and revealing his eagerness too obviously. “For example?”

 

“My father was a baker,” Adaar says, and it gives Dorian’s giddiness pause. He chastises himself after a moment for feeling so. Of course it’s logical that not every Qunari can be a soldier, or a priest, or a spy, or a mage on the end of a leash, but to hear it spoken so plainly is… new. Even knowing Adaar himself.

 

“Well, that explains quite a lot.”

 

Adaar laughs softly, lifting his cup to breathe in the steam. “He would have agreed, I think,” he says and his smiles grows wistful for a moment. “I’m afraid I never mastered all of his recipes. His pie... They told me that’s how he first got my mother’s attention.”

 

“Oh?” Dorian takes a sip of tea himself, forcing himself not to seem too curious. He can feel Adaar’s steady gaze on him and realizes that Adaar is hesitating. It’s so unusual that it takes him a moment to recognize it.

 

“She was Ben-Hassrath,” Adaar says finally. And then, when Dorian doesn’t respond, “Something like the secret police.”

 

“I know of them,” Dorian says quickly, pushing past his surprise. “I’m sorry, it’s just not what I expected.”

 

“Neither did they.” Adaar looks at his tea cup and smiles at the memory. “The things I bake, the things my father baked… They are not common in Par Vollen. Pastries and pie and cookies - anything sweet, really. When he first started making them, my mother was sent to investigate. To find out where he got the ideas and the recipes. A baker with connections beyond Par Vollen was unheard of.”

 

“They send a spy after your father because of baked goods?” There are a hundred quips on the tip of Dorian’s tongue but he swallows them and waits for Adaar to continue.

 

Adaar laughs quietly. “It was strange enough to raise concerns.”

 

“So did he? Have connections beyond Par Vollen, I mean.”

 

“Oh, yes.” Adaar leans back in his chair. “A Rivaini smuggler. I don’t think it took my mother more than a week to figure it out. But by then…”

 

“She had already fallen for him?”

 

Adaar laughs. “More for his baking, I think.”

 

Dorian eyes the pastries on the table. “It’s not difficult to believe that.”

 

“She thought it innocent enough. But that was the start of everything.”

 

“And, what,” Dorian says, taking up his own teacup. “They… eloped to the south for love and pastry?”

 

Adaar’s face twists a little, like he’s holding in a thought, or a sneeze. “Ah… something like that. They didn’t talk about it much. Tal-Vashoth don’t really go on about their descension from the Qun.”

 

“But that was the result,” Dorian prods, where perhaps he shouldn’t. “The spy and the baker left everything they knew behind to brave a new world together. Then out you popped, not unlike one of your little cakes from the oven.”

 

“I don’t think I was ever very little,” Adaar says, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. Dorian waves him off.

 

“Always with the semantics, spoiling my fun.”

 

Adaar doesn’t press about Dorian’s parents, which is a relief. He might not get a word in edgewise, past Dorian’s persistent inquiries over Adaar’s childhood, raised in the forest with only his mutinous parents for company.

 

“I fear your imagination might be a lot more exciting than it really was.” Adaar laughs and puts down his empty tea cup. “It was a normal childhood, all things considered.”

 

“Please.” Dorian shakes his head. “I’m surprised your friend Varric hasn’t worked the whole story into one of his novels. I would have been a bestseller.”

 

“With a lot of exaggeration, perhaps.”

 

“Isn’t that always the case?”

 

They leave the empty dishes and the rest of the pastries and fruit on the table and start their round through the garden. Down here, they are still shielded from the house and prying eyes. The hedges lining the curved path are thick and covered in blood-red flowers, each blossom buzzing with Adaar’s bees. He looks more like a proud father than ever as he watches them.

 

“These are from Tevinter?,” he asks and brushes one of the bell-shaped flowers with his fingertips. A particularly fuzzy bee takes offense at the sudden interruption and takes off of to find a flower out of Adaar’s reach.

 

“I believe so. I remember them from Minrathous. They grow mostly in niches and cracks of old stone buildings. But I do not know what they are called.”

 

“Perhaps the gardener will know.”

 

“He would. That or the appropriate Marcher equivalent.”

 

Wandering the edges of the garden, Dorian takes him to the blackberry bushes. Adaar’s eyes light up, and with little more than a word from Dorian, he’s staining his fingers purple with juice as he picks. “I still owe you a bush,” Dorian says, utterly fascinated with Adaar’s delight.

 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Adaar counters, tipping a handful of berries into his mouth. It doesn’t for a moment occur to him to be abashed of the display, and in all honesty, Dorian is taken by it. Where polite society might demand he demure, Adaar accepts the smallest gifts of nature with gusto. He’s as sticky-handed as a child, and when he extends a handful to Dorian, he politely declines.

 

“It’s yours, you know,” Dorian tells him, brushing his fingertips over his own amused grin. “You needn’t forage.”

 

This draws the color to Adaar’s face, and he ducks his head. “I… Thank you. This is very generous of you.”

 

“Oh, I thought we had established just how selfless this gift is. All I expect in return are more of your baked goods, really.”

 

Adaar laughs. “I think I can manage that.” He pops the last berry into his mouth and proceeds to rub his hands together, a tiny frown of concentration on his face. It must be some sort of cleaning spell. One second, Adaar’s hands are purple and sticky from blackberry juice and the next, they are completely clean.

 

Without thinking, Dorian steps forward and takes one of Adaar’s enormous hands in his. “That is a fascinating trick,” he says, turning Adaar’s hand around to look at his palm.

 

“Convenient when dealing with honey and wax,” Adaar says but his voice sounds strangely breathy. Dorian looks up. In his curiosity he has closed the distance between them and what little remains of it seems utterly insignificant all of a sudden. He is also still holding Adaar’s hand - a minor detail that only serves to make heat rise to his cheeks.

 

He doesn’t quite drop it as much as he gives it an awkward pat before letting go and stepping back. “Most learned mages in Tevinter don’t stoop to manual labor,” he says as if it needs any further explanation. “So there's no widespread knowledge of spells like yours.” He notices only too late how offensivel his words might come across.

 

But Adaar doesn’t take offense. Instead he nods and folds his hands, one thumb running over the spot where Dorian’s fingers touched him just moments ago. Dorian forces himself to look at Adaar’s face instead.

 

“I could teach you. I know I promised you to show you the calming aura spell as well.” Adaar stops, suddenly unsure of himself. “If you’re still interested, of course…”

 

“I’m very interested,” Dorian assures, and takes care not to clarify, “in learning new magic. Something more useful might be refreshing. It would be a party trick among the elite, but then, none of them would have the faintest clue how to do it themselves, would they.”

 

He wants to take Adaar’s hand again, and quashes the spark of desire before it flickers into flame.

 

When he leads Adaar into the rose garden, elation radiates from him in waves. The shapes and colors vary from wild, bursting blooms of white and blush-pink, to coy, supple cups of velvet red. Dorian is taken very suddenly by the urge to pluck one from the bush and tuck it smartly into the pocket of Adaar’s robes.

 

The notion flies away on the gasp of the girl down the wall.

 

“Oh!” the cook’s daughter says, jerking her hand back from a rosebush several paces away. If her eyes went any wider, they’d pop right out of her head. “Messeres! I was - pardon me, I was only… Mother said you liked the tea, so I was…”

 

“Do carry on,” Dorian tells her, but she isn’t looking at him. Her dark skin goes darker still the longer she looks at Adaar, and in her fluster to resume her task, she grabs at thorns instead.

 

“Oh!” she says again, flinching away from the bush.

 

Even from several steps away, Dorian can see the drop of blood welling up on the tip of her finger - a perfect little dome of deep dark red that builds and builds before it breaks and runs down her hand. He doesn’t have time to do as much as voice his surprise before Adaar moves from his side and steps up to the girl. She makes a small choked noise at the back of her throat and Adaar stops himself before touching her.

 

“May I?”

 

She nods, wide-eyed and speechless, and Adaar carefully takes her hand in his. With the other, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to stop the blood flow.

 

“I can heal it, if you're comfortable with that,” Adaar offers.

 

Another nod. Dorian fears she might faint just from Adaar’s presence alone. Or from the way he cradles her hand and closes up the tiny wound with a little healing magic. Or from the way he smiles at her when it’s done, dimples and all. Dorian can hardly blame her for forgetting how to breathe. He knows the feeling all too well.

 

“There,” Adaar says and wipes away the last of the blood. “Your mother’s tea is very nice, but not worth spilling blood over.”

 

She smiles, a little dazed perhaps, but when she speaks her voice is steady. “Thank you, Messere.”

 

“It was no trouble,” he assures her, and when he releases her hand, she clutches it to her chest.

 

“I’m not usually so clumsy,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She has stars in her eyes. It’s charming. “I’d kick myself if I didn’t say it, but I - I love your honey! We’ve visited your stall at the Festival for years and years now - we’re very lucky Messere Pavus is so generous.”

 

“Come now, we shan’t start any rumors of that nature,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

 

“Of course, Messere,” she says, entirely courteous despite her expression which isn’t very contrite at all. “I’ll return to my duties now. Please, don’t mind me!”

 

“It was nice to meet you,” Adaar says, and she laughs, flushed, and hastens to clip a small basketful of blooms before she disappears around the hedge.

 

“My, my.” Dorian nudges him when he comes to stand by Adaar’s side. “If you’d stood so close much longer, I believe she might’ve fainted dead away. You would tell me if you were a prince in disguise, wouldn’t you?”

 

Adaar plucks at his own shirt. “It would be a poor disguise.”

 

“Oh, don’t be funny. You’re too charming to be a jester.”

 

Adaar ducks his head but not fast enough to hide his smile. “There is no royalty under the Qun,” he says.

 

“A tragic waste indeed,” Dorian sighs. “Now _that_ would have been a story for Varric.” There is also the thought of Adaar in dress uniform, tailored to show off his broad shoulders. He would look good in royal purple and gold.

 

They continue their way through the rose garden without further incident. The sun stands high in the sky and the air is heady with the scent of the roses. Even here, Adaar’s bees are hard at work, the soft buzz a constant companion on their little walk.

 

From the rose garden, the path leads back to the house. Dorian resists the urge to slow down just to prolong the time he has alone with Adaar. As soon as they step into the house, there will hardly be a moment without some servant just around the corner. A fact that never bothered him much back home now sets his teeth on edge.

 

As if he’s read his mind, Adaar stops in front of a particularly beautiful rosebush, each dusky pink blossom heavy enough to weigh down the branches. Adaar gently turns one of the blossoms to take a better look at it. They are almost as big as Dorian’s fist.

 

“There used to be roses like this in front of my parents’ home,” Adaar says. “They weren’t this big, of course. But the color is the same.” He runs the pad of his thumb over the petals. “My father planted the bush for my mother before I was even born.”

 

“How terribly romantic of him,” Dorian says. His voice comes softer than he intended. Without a thought, he plucks one from the bush and tucks it into Adaar’s breast pocket. “There now. You may caress that at your heart’s content. If you like, I’d be happy to give you a cutting of your own. You’re welcome to grow them yourself.”

 

Adaar’s fingers brush his upon his retreat, and he holds the rose delicately to his chest.

 

“Dorian.”

 

Dorian’s eyes flicker up to Adaar’s. It’s absurd, frankly, how catching that smile is.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I’m hardly in a place to accept your thanks, but…” He pats Adaar’s chest. “Nevertheless. You’re welcome.”

 

There is something tender and vulnerable between them, something easily bruised by moving too fast or speaking too loudly. Dorian steps back when he wants to move forward. His fingers tingle where he touched Adaar - humming in frustration with the rest of him.

 

“Would you like to see the house?” he asks and laces his fingers behind his back, just to be sure. “I’m told it’s quite grand.”

 

Adaar smiles, one hand still cupping the rose to his chest. “It’s difficult to miss,” he agrees.

 

“Oh, my parents made sure of that.”

 

It’s strange somehow to show Adaar through the house. In many ways, the high walls and broad corridors seem to be made for someone like him - someone to fill the space. Not that he needs it. Dorian has seen him move around in his tiny kitchen after all.

 

But even Adaar with all his smiles and his warmth does not manage to make the halls feel less empty and cold. Someone who is more enamored by a handful of blackberries than by the priceless marble staircase or the skillfully painted portraits of Dorian’s ancestors on the wall. Dorian’s mother would be appalled where he finds himself utterly charmed.

 

The servants keep well out of their way, and Dorian would appreciate it more if he didn’t know they lay just beyond closed doors and alcoves, waiting silently for them to pass. To say he’d ever been so nettled by his staff before would be a lie - to say he’d ever really noticed such behavior in any meaningful way would be one, too. Somewhere between the shift in decorum wrought by the Marchers, and the desire to come across as a person worth association to Adaar, the silent servitude has become vexing.

 

Still, Dorian tucks the sensation deep, deep down as he ushers his guest into the library.

 

Adaar is taken with the collection. He runs his fingertips over dusty old tomes, lingering on magical theory. Briefly, Dorian remembers the haphazard stacks of books in Adaar’s bedroom - well-worn, from frequent use.

 

“Interested?” he suggests, wandering close to Adaar’s side. “Several of these are written in Tevene, but certainly not all of them. You’re welcome to borrow at your leisure.”

 

“I…” Adaar gingerly pulls out a tome on runic enchantments. Dorian takes another on the theory of time magic and tucks it under his arm.

 

“Go on, then. Without you and I, these would all decay to dust.”

 

“That would be a waste indeed.” Adaar smiles, but he still seems hesitant.

 

“Most of them belong to my father,” Dorian says and taps his finger against the gold lettering on an old tome’s spine. “Dreadfully dry stuff, most of it. But this morning some of my own books arrived from Tevinter. It’s mostly theory but I would love your thoughts on it, if you’re so inclined. Really, you’d be doing me a favor.”

 

“I don’t know how much help I’d be,” Adaar says, much more guarded than Dorian has come to know him. “My education might not be up to Circle standards.”

 

Dorian tuts him. “You underestimate yourself and overestimate the education in the Circles. In any case, I happen to enjoy our talks much more than I enjoyed speaking to any of the mages I left behind in Minrathous. You’re far better company. And none of them even offered to bake pastries for me.”

 

Adaar laughs and Dorian thinks he hears not a small measure of relief in it. “In that case, I’d be delighted to.”

 

Dorian decidedly doesn’t think about it when he guides Adaar to his quarters. He’s showing the man his personal collection, not taking him to bed. And he isn’t thinking about it.

 

He isn’t thinking about how cozy it is, entertaining Adaar in his bedroom with the soft, waning light of late afternoon. Neither does he think about how comfortable Adaar is in Dorian’s private space, perusing his shelves, his boots sunk into the plush Antivan rug.

 

A quiet laugh gives Dorian pause, and Adaar glances over at him. “This is all research material.”

 

“I suppose you could call it that,” Dorian sniffs, folding his arms over his chest. “I prefer to call it light reading.”

 

Adaar looks back at the shelf and pulls out a thick, familiar book. “The ‘Arcane Tome of the Mortal Vessel’ is _light_ reading?”

 

“I think you’ll find the matter subjective,” Dorian tuts, snatching the book from his hands. Adaar just smiles a knowing smile and turns back to the shelf.

 

He cocks his head, silently mouthing the titles as he reads. “You're very interested in necromancy,” he says. Dorian is used to the tone of judgement that usually accompanies this observation but there is not a trace of it to be found in Adaar’s voice. He tamps down the familiar prickle of defensiveness.

 

“Not many people outside of Nevarra study it in detail,” he says instead. “What can I say? I’m partial to the extraordinary.” He allows himself a small smile. “The untrodden paths.”

 

Adaar turns his head and for one moment just looks at him. “I think I can understand that,” he finally says, his voice low and far softer than the situation calls for. There is something strangely warm in his steady gaze - genuine understanding perhaps. All of a sudden, Dorian finds it difficult to bear. He turns away but all that does is make him face the bed. The bed which is soft and inviting and far too large for just one person. The bed which has witnessed how just the day before he awoke achingly hard and longing with the last bits of his dream still clinging to him.

 

No, turning around doesn’t help.

 

What does help is Tacitus who chooses just this moment to politely knock on the door to inform them that dinner is about to be served.

 

“Thank you, Tacitus,” Dorian says, mentally noting the appropriate distance between himself and his guest. “We’ll take it in the garden.”

 

A nod and murmured assent is his response before he silently closes the door behind himself again.

 

By the time Dorian turns around, three more books have found their way under Adaar’s arm. The familiarity of it strikes a pleasant chord in Dorian’s chest. “I hope you don’t mind; the dining hall is immense. It’s terribly gauche to seat so few at such a massive table.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Adaar murmurs, but his mind seems only half on it as his eyes remain focused on the shelves.

 

“You can always come back, you know,” Dorian says, wandering closer to his elbow. “In fact, I insist. I’d like to try a few things with you, if you’re amenable, and context could prove advantageous.”

 

Adaar blinks and turns to him, his brow furrowed. “You mean necromancy?”

 

“What on earth would _you_ resurrect?” Dorian laughs, patting his shoulder. “No, not necromancy; at least, not yet. But perhaps storm magicks, the subtler spirit arts… I’m sure I have several tomes on the matter of temporal magic, as well…”

 

“All that sounds a lot more complex than the simple spells I could teach you. It seems like an unfair trade.”

 

“A matter of perspective.” Dorian’s hand lingers on Adaar’s arm for a moment longer before he steps back. “You have taught me plenty already.”

 

He has one of the servants pack up the books Adaar picked out while they make their way back outside for supper. The setting sun of the early evening is especially kind, bathing the house and the garden in marigold light. The air is still warm enough with just the lightest breeze carrying up the scent of flowers.

 

The table on the upper terrace is already set. It was the right choice, Dorian decides. The thought of sitting with Adaar at the large table in the dining hall is ridiculous at best. And there is something to be said about how Adaar looks in the golden light of evening.

 

As soon as the first course is served, Dorian dismisses the servants. He chills the wine himself before pouring Adaar a glass.

 

“Speaking of magic,” Dorian says, ignoring the bee that lands on his shoulder, “I should like to begin our little exchange soon.”

 

Adaar hums a low note when the wine hits his tongue, and Dorian… doesn’t think about it. “I’m ready when you are,” he says, and drinks again.

 

“I thought you might like that,” Dorian says, rightfully smug, and helps himself to his own glass. It isn’t dark or heady enough to suit him, but there’s something to be said for the pleasure on his companion’s face while he drinks.

 

“I’m easy to please,” confesses Adaar, leaning forward. “What would you like to know?”

 

“Everything, ideally. But I suppose we might start small. Your calming aura is fascinating, and I imagine you’ve got more hidden talents up your sleeve.” He takes another sip and holds Adaar’s gaze over the rim of his glass. Slowly, he lowers it to the table. “And what use might I be to you?”

 

“Truthfully?” Adaar sets down his glass. “I’ll take anything you are willing to show me.”

 

“Now there is something you might live to regret.” Dorian laughs and ignores the pleasant tingling at the back of his neck. “I have a lot to show.”

 

Perhaps it’s a trick of the light but Dorian is certain he sees Adaar blushing before he takes another, more hasty sip of his wine. “I’d hope so,” he says. “The way you do magic…” He trails off and makes a small but all-encompassing gesture with his hand. “It’s different even in the smallest things. Like the way you stand or how you access the Fade.”

 

Dorian leans forward, one hand curling around his glass. “You are very perceptive.” Not that he is truly surprised. But the thought of Adaar watching him close enough to notice these things is a pleasant one nonetheless. “But I’m afraid those are hardly the most exciting things I could teach you.”

 

“I would like to learn them anyway, if you don’t mind.” Adaar smiles. “I think it might be helpful for the more.... exciting things you suggested earlier.”

 

Dorian tries not to think about it. Showing Adaar the proper stances. Correcting his movements with light touches and guiding hands. Telling him how to _move_.

 

It’s his turn to take a quick sip of wine, just to hide whatever emotion must be plain on his face.

 

Their second course comes sometime later, but it’s clear Adaar enjoys nothing more than dessert - blackberry tart, with berries fresh from the garden, practically soaking in a pool of cream. If Dorian didn’t know any better, he’d suspect his own cook of trying to win the man over. As if it could be so easy.

 

The sun is long gone by the time they finish eating, and Dorian insists Adaar stay the night. Hospitality would dictate it even if friendship did not. Politely, though, Adaar declines.

 

“Truly, you’d walk the forest at night when there’s a perfectly good bed here for you?” Dorian says, crossing his arms. “Several, even. You may have your pick.”

 

“Thank you, Dorian,” Adaar laughs, cinching his cloak tightly about his shoulders. He pats the rose in his pocket once, as though to reassure himself that it remains, and readjusts the books under his arm. “Perhaps another time.”

 

Begrudgingly, Dorian walks him to the edge of the forest, magelight lit upon both of their palms. He watches Adaar’s trail slowly away through the trees until it disappears entirely, and then he sighs.

 

_Another time_ , he says. Well. He’ll take Adaar up on that one day. He’ll have hospitality thrust upon him if it’s the last thing Dorian does in the Free Marches.

 

It might very well be.

 

He gives his head a brief shake before turning back toward the villa. There’s time enough for thoughts like that - Dorian needn’t entertain them now, after such a pleasant evening. Instead, he returns, and dodges grabs for gossip from the cook in the kitchen where he retrieves a bottle of real wine and retires to his room.

 

For hours he lies abed, drinking and reading to pass the time, half consciously wondering if Adaar might be doing the same.


	7. Chapter 7

There's a light gleam of sweat on Adaar’s forehead and on his neck and on the bit of his collarbone that peaks out from underneath his shirt. Dorian finds it very, very distracting. In his defense, it's tremendously difficult to focus on anything in this heat. His mind is going hazy from just the slightest bit of effort, despite being uncomfortably seated in Adaar's garden chairs. So looking at Adaar and his neck and his collarbones and also listening to what he's saying at the same is a lot to ask. Because he _is_ talking. His lips are moving. So are his hands.

 

“You should drink something.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Adaar pushes a glass of lemon water towards him and there is a tiny frown in between his eyebrows. Also rather distracting. “You should drink something. You look thirsty.”  

 

Dorian shakes his head - not to disagree but to clear his head. He reaches out to take the glass but even the lemon water has turned lukewarm in the afternoon sun. His displeasure must be obvious because Adaar leans forward and taps two fingers against the side of the glass. There is a low crackling sound as a thin layer of ice begins to spread over the glass, wandering around and then up Dorian’s hand and forearm.

 

The sound that comes out of Dorian’s mouth is positively obscene.

 

The color in Adaar’s cheeks could very well be attributed to the sun beating down, but Dorian vindictively hopes it is not.

 

He sips, humoring Adaar’s warnings to take it slow.

 

They’ve been spellcasting for hours, but his mana hasn’t depleted to the point of exhaustion. The magic they wield isn’t potent - quite the opposite. As the last three weeks of their practice can attest, Adaar’s skills lie not in power, but in delicacy. Subtle spells that prove deceptive in their simplicity. Spells that take a careful touch, and a light one - the difference between a wave of calm, and a sedative. Static enough to raise the hair on one’s arms, and bolt from the sky. Lighting a candle, and burning a forest.

 

“Show me again,” Dorian says once he does away with the glass, and extends his arm. Adaar obliges without question; his palm glides down Dorian’s bare skin, leaving a glistening layer of frost. It’s enough to cool Dorian without the discomfort of a true chill. Thus far, Dorian himself has managed only to freeze the individual hairs along Adaar’s arms. He’s improved in the sense of thinking _subtle_ , but he fears how far he has to go to achieving _gentle_.

 

Adaar manages both effortlessly. It’s a mindset, he’s told Dorian, who figures that’s just a diplomatic way of saying, _‘You think too much_.’

 

When Adaar mentioned how different the Tevinter style of spellcasting looked and felt to him, Dorian didn’t even stop to think that the same might apply the other way around. That the way Adaar casts would be difficult to imitate. It’s a different technique, of course, but it's also a difference in intent. A different motivation.

 

In Tevinter, he was taught to study and memorize. To understand a spell before casting it. To think until and practice until instinct and muscle memory take over. It’s not that Adaar doesn’t think about what he’s doing, but his point of focus seems to be completely different from what Dorian is used to.

 

He puts one hand on Adaar's forearm. On another day he might have distracted himself by the mere feeling of it, warm freckled skin and toned muscles underneath. But not being able to figure something out is just too frustrating. Perhaps it has something to do with how he accesses the Fade after all?

 

When he looks up and finds Adaar trying to suppress an amused smile he realizes that his brow is knitted in concentration again. “I’m not overthinking it,” he says.  

 

Adaar has the tact not to call him out on his lie. “Perhaps we should try again on a cooler day?”

 

“It's been this hot all week. And at this rate, I fear you'll think I’m taking advantage of you and that nifty little ice trick. You deserve some cooling down as well.”

 

Adaar laughs. “You’ll get it eventually.” He pauses, thinking for a moment. “It just doesn't come as much from here,” he says and points towards his head, “as it comes from here.” He puts his hand in the centre of his gut.

 

“Well, now that just sounds overly romantic to me.”

 

Adaar purses his lips in thought, as though sorting through the proper words. “It’s… the fine line between desire and intent.” Slowly, he draws his hand down Dorian’s other arm, shoulder to elbow, until his skin is covered in a thin layer of frost. “I _want_ you to be cool. I don’t _intend_ to make you cold. There’s a... “

 

“A varying degree of… of purpose?”

 

Adaar beams. “Yes! Something like that. With more intent, I find magic is more… solidified. Condensed?”

 

Dorian nods evenly. “Intent is one of the more practical lessons we learn as children, for the role it plays in casting. We turn our… _want,_ as you say, into _intent_. I suppose I’ve never considered them separate, as opposed to a mean to the other’s end.”

 

“They are, I think,” Adaar says, cupping Dorian’s elbow and drawing his magic down to Dorian’s hand. “In the end. But in the execution, there’s a difference.” He grins, and with the lightest squeeze of the wrist, Dorian watches the hair on his arm rise and freeze over. “Intent,” he murmurs, and runs his hand back up to Dorian’s elbow, his palm radiating warmth that melts the ice. “Desire.”

 

The cold, the heat, and Adaar’s fingertips so endlessly gentle. Dorian can't help the shiver that runs through him at the sensation. At the sound of Dorian's sharp intake of breath, Adaar’s hand stills, and when Dorian looks up he finds his gaze steady on him. He's very close, his eyes wide and dark and his lips slightly parted. If there is one thing Dorian thinks he understands, it’s desire.

 

“I think,” he says and his voice is strange and low and doesn’t sound like him at all. “I think I would like to try again.”

 

Adaar blinks as if he’s pulled out of the Fade itself. But then, he smiles and nods before pulling away, his fingers brushing against Dorian’s wrist one last time. He rolls up his left sleeve a little bit further until just above his elbow and offers his arm to Dorian with another encouraging smile.

 

Dorian puts his hand on Adaar’s arm, keeping his touch light. “Desire,” he murmurs under his breath, as though he’s likely to forget the concept. Thoughts of technique and theory rise up somewhere in his mind but he pushes them aside, searching for something else. Slowly, he runs his fingers up to Adaar’s elbow, imitating his movements.

 

_I want..._

 

Yes, Dorian wants a lot of things. There is no point in denying that, especially not to himself. But if he pushes past that for just a moment, there is something simpler underneath. Adaar in the field, shielding his eyes against the sun and looking towards him. Adaar in the kitchen, his hands covered in flour. Adaar carefully brushing away a stray bee before placing the frames in the hive, taking care not to harm a single one. Adaar whose skin is so hot under his touch, with the sun bearing down on both of them mercilessly and the wind refusing to bring even the slightest bit of relief.

 

He wants to do something for him. He wants him to be comfortable. He wants him to be cool.

 

Dorian runs his fingers back down to Adaar’s wrist and a thin layer of frost follows in their wake, almost shy in the way it spreads and curls around his arm.

 

It's not perfect, but it's a start.

 

“Aha!” he says, that endless old delight of success bursting free.

 

His voice shatters the intensity between them, but he feels proud, excited. Giddy for something so simple. He was never so open with it as he once was as a child, prying approval out of his father’s hands. As the years passed, the childish glee turned instead to smug satisfaction: success was always inevitable; he was a rather talented mage.

 

Adaar shares in his pleasure, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening with his smile. “Well done,” he says, clapping Dorian on the shoulder.

 

“Naturally,” he agrees, lifting his chin. “I had a very patient tutor.”

 

“You took precisely the amount of time you needed,” Adaar demures, but his eyes betray how pleased he is. “Would you like to try again?”

 

“I should like to try many things,” he begins to say, but his voice fades off somewhere near the end when Adaar tugs his shirt over his head. It takes a little finagling with the horns, but he manages well enough in the end, and leaves Dorian sitting there, stunned into quiet most people would pay for. “Well,” he tries for levity. “That will also do.”

 

Adaar halts in his movements, his shirt in his hands and a small frown on his face. “Is everything alright?” He's standing all of a sudden, his massive form casting a welcome shadow over Dorian.

 

Dorian clears his throat. “Yes, of course.” After all, it’s not the first time he's seen Adaar without a shirt. It’s been a common occurrence in the heat of the last few weeks. He's nearly gotten used to the sight, and even manages to avoid prolonged staring and stammering. At least when it doesn’t hit him by surprise like this.

 

He gets out of his chair and if he feels a little light-headed it’s only due to the punishing afternoon sun. “I wasn’t aware that the weather in the Free Marches could get this hot,” he says as he makes his way up to Adaar. Because talking about the weather is always a welcome distraction when faced with a qunari’s broad shoulders and an expanse of dark skin littered with constellations of freckles. “It’s… unpleasant, with the humidity,” he finishes weakly and steps behind Adaar.

 

“It’s not uncommon,” says Adaar, and when Dorian’s fingertips make contact with the skin of his left shoulder, he swears he feels him shiver a little - even before Dorian wills the first frost to spread. It’s easier to focus on this, flowers of ice growing and blooming across Adaar’s shoulder and back. The contrast against his skin is a sight, and Dorian finds that when he trails his fingers in just the right way, he can produce the most intricate shapes and flourishes. Adaar’s pleased sigh only encourages him to work his way up the nape of his neck and down again along the slope of his other shoulder.

 

Adaar actually laughs, a little breathless, when their positions shift and Dorian’s fingertips spread a line of frost over his collar bones. When it melts, rivulets of water trickle down his chest. He glistens under the high sun, his dark flesh catching the light when he so much as shifts. Dorian presses his palms against his chest, and leaves his handprints there in frost.  
  
“Aha,” he laughs to himself, and looks up to find that they are very, very close indeed.

 

His fingers curl, nails scraping through the ice.

 

Adaar’s throat bobs right before his eyes, and terrible, awful, no good, very bad temptation flares in Dorian’s stomach.

 

“Ah,” he says, more quietly.

 

Dorian’s hands remain on Adaar’s solid chest. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t moved them yet. He’s supposed to be doing the freezing - being frozen himself is counterproductive.

 

“Dorian,” says Adaar, and Dorian can feel the rumble of it through his chest. Fascinating. His fingers uncurl and spread, inadvisably, over his pectorals instead.

 

The high of success keeps buzzing inside Dorian’s head. He’s going to blame that.

 

And the heat.

 

And the weight of Adaar’s gaze.

 

He was told to stop overthinking. So he tries not to think at all as he reaches up to curl his hand around the back of Adaar’s neck and pulls him down. And he doesn’t when Adaar follows and his eyes slide closed and when their lips meet, _finally_.

 

Then Adaar’s hand in on the small of his back, broad and solid and reassuring, and there is no place for thoughts. No place for anything other than the sensation of kissing Adaar - of how his lips feel as they move against his, and how he tastes faintly of lemon.

 

When Adaar does pull back, it’s a soft enough parting that Dorian can almost forgive it. His face is still so very close and his eyes half-lidded and dark. Dorian swallows, realizing that this is what he's wanted all along: To be close enough to count the freckles dusting Adaar’s cheeks if he wanted to. To reach up and brush his thumb against them if he pleased. So he does, with shaking hand and shaky breath and Maker, his chest is so tight with want, it’s almost painful.

 

“Dorian,” Adaar says, so low and quiet that Dorian can't feel it this time, even though he's pressed against his chest. “Is this alright?”

 

“Maker, yes,” Dorian says, breathless and completely entranced by the way Adaar just leans into the touch of his hand. And then, when Adaar’s words and the tiny frown on his face finally reach him, “I kissed you.”

 

“I know. It’s just… I am... I'm not human.” Adaar says it like it isn’t obvious. And worse, like it’s something he has to apologize for.

 

Dorian snakes his arms around Adaar’s neck until his body is flush against his. Which is good, very good. “I noticed. It may shock you to hear but that was actually one of the first things I noticed about you.”

 

Adaar smiles, dimples and all, and that’s even better.

 

They’re both damp with sweat, and the heat of the summer sun is nothing less than sweltering, but Dorian can’t bring himself to move away. Adaar’s body is sticky against Dorian’s robes, and he wants nothing more than to have them off.

 

Instead, he stretches up as far as his tiptoes will allow. “Might I try that again? This time, without the element of surprise.”

 

“I like your surprises,” Adaar says, but he leans down to press his mouth to Dorian’s again anyway.

 

A tingling spreads through Dorian’s body that he attributes to the intimacy of Adaar’s touch, until he realizes that the sensation is familiar. He breaks the kiss with a laugh, Adaar’s nose pressed to his.

 

“You’re hot,” he explains, an impossibly thin layer of frost creeping from the small of Dorian’s back over his torso.

 

“How good of you to notice,” he quips, sending his own ice magic over the back of Adaar’s neck. It makes him gasp right against Dorian's mouth, and he simply has to kiss him again.

 

It must be the heat, he decides, that makes him want to melt like this. Even with Adaar tracing icy patterns on his back, he feels warm and strange. Like his legs won’t carry him and his head is in a haze. He can’t quite tell how much of it is due to the sun and the hours of magic lessons and how much can attributed to the way Adaar’s tongue brushes against his bottom lip, how his other hand has found its place at the nape of Dorian’s neck.

 

He could stay like this forever. With Adaar’s arms holding him up and enough mana to keep them cool and Adaar kissing him - finally, finally kissing him. And then, just when he's convinced himself of the practicality of this plan, his stomach rumbles. Loudly.

 

Perhaps Adaar hasn’t heard it. Perhaps he hasn’t _felt_ it.

 

“Dorian,” Adaar murmurs against his lips but Dorian keeps his eyes closed and keeps kissing him. “Dorian…”

 

He makes a noncommittal noise somewhere in the back of his throat that only makes Adaar laugh and pull back gently.

 

“You’re hungry.” Adaar taps his forehead to Dorian’s.

 

“Nonsense. What gave you that idea?” And of course his stomach picks that moment for another betrayal.

 

"We've been working hard all day. You need to keep up your strength." At least Adaar has the decency not to grin. “Please let me make you some food.”

 

“You always feed me,” Dorian protests, moving with the kiss Adaar presses to the corner of his mouth. “The kissing is new.”

 

But he lets himself unwind from around Adaar and be moved into the cottage.

 

With the windows and doors left open to allow the breeze, out of the sun, the little home is a balm on his overheated skin. Dorian rouses his higher brain functions with the separation from Adaar’s body, and seats himself at the table when the baser part of him wants nothing more than to crowd Adaar against the counter.

 

It’s… normal, the way Adaar bustles about his kitchen - the way Dorian can sit at his table and watch him, and not feel…

 

He kissed a man in the middle of a _clearing_.

 

He kissed a man in the open, where anyone might have seen.

 

“The last time I let another boy kiss me in a garden, I was fifteen years old, hidden away behind a bush,” he muses, fiddling with his mustache. Whatever Adaar’s working with clatters. His back is turned to Dorian, but the way he ducks his head is unmistakable. “The rumors about southerners being shameless prove correct, once again.”

 

“I’m almost certain I didn’t make the first move,” says Adaar. The way his back muscles shift and play with each small movement serves as nothing less than a distraction.

 

“Mm, yes. Apparently, it’s catching.”

 

There's a sudden stillness in Adaar’s shoulders that Dorian doesn’t like. “Do you… was it, ah. Was it a hasty decision?”

 

“This is hardly a garden in Tevinter. And I’m not fifteen anymore.” He reaches out and puts his hand on Adaar’s arm. Without getting up it’s an awkward angle; Dorian rises. “So no, I don’t regret it.”

 

He doesn’t say, I think I would have kissed you anywhere. Partially because he fears it’s the truth and that thought leads to something he’s not quite ready to face. So instead he gives Adaar’s arm a little tug and Adaar follows willingly.

 

It’s a simple kiss, nothing like the heated ones outside, but it feels so normal that it makes Dorian’s head spin a little bit. When Adaar pulls back, he's smiling, the tension lifted from his shoulders.

 

He turns back around to the counter and Dorian tries to take a peek at whatever he's preparing, but something else catches his eye. It’s a single dried rose, dangling from thin cord next to the window by the sink. It’s smaller now, it’s petals slightly shriveled, but the dusky pink color is unmistakable.

 

“You kept the rose,” he says and gets up to take a closer look.

 

“It was a gift,” Adaar says, and smiles down at the brewing tea. “I like it.”

 

“Sentimental fool,” Dorian says, fondly. He’s seen how well-tended the replanted blackberry bush has kept in Adaar’s garden. To be honest, the rose doesn’t surprise him much at all. “You’ll have to return with me one of these days for another.”

 

He steals one of the ginger cookies from under Adaar’s nose, and nudges his shoulder turning back to the table. He makes a muffled noise of surprise around a mouthful when he’s halted by a thick arm and pressed against the countertop.

 

Apparently, wishful thinking pays off in abundance in Wildervale.

 

Adaar holds him there carefully, and leans down to press a kiss beneath Dorian’s ear. A spray of crumbs flies attractively from Dorian’s mouth and coats Adaar’s bare shoulder, rendering him speechless with mortification until Adaar’s cheek presses to his. He’s shaking, laughter a series of airy bursts against Dorian’s jaw.

 

Dorian swallows the rest of the cookie, lest he embarrass himself even further. “Since I don’t believe the earth is merciful enough to swallow me, I think I'll just die now if that's alright with you.”

 

Adaar is still laughing and when Dorian presses his hands against his chest, he can feel it vibrating with it. “Please don’t,” he says, still close to Dorian’s ear, and when his lips brush against his jaw once more, it’s almost enough to distract Dorian. Almost.

 

“Let’s get you cleaned up first,” he says. “And I think I was promised some food? Some that I would actually consider eating instead of spitting out?”

 

It only makes Adaar laugh more but he releases Dorian and brushes the unfortunate crumbs from his shoulder. Actually getting the tea, cookies and some of the cinnamon pastries Dorian has developed a particular fondness for onto the table proves much more difficult. Now that Dorian has left the safety of his seat and once he's nearly over his mortification, it's so much easier for him to distract Adaar. And it doesn’t help that Adaar doesn’t seem to mind getting distracted at all.

 

Cinnamon and sugar lies heavy on his tongue, and there’s a fiendish, rising urge in Dorian to share it with Adaar now that he can.

 

In the back of his mind, a whisper reminds him that this shiny new elation cannot sustain itself, by the end of summer or the very nature of the world. Dorian buries it deep, deep down, and stands.  

 

Adaar leans back when Dorian approaches his side of the table, and reaches out a hand to touch his hip when he’s close enough.

 

“I feel I should repay you for feeding me so well, and so often,” he says, the sultry curve of his smile shaping the words. Adaar’s lips part, and his fingers flex.

 

And then a sharp whistle bites through the air. “This is _new!_ ”

 

Dorian nearly jumps out of his skin, jerking out of Adaar’s grip to face the voice in the window. Sera grins from ear to ear, nearly all of her teeth on show. “Alright, poncey?” she sniggers, propping her cheek on a fist.

 

“I was,” Dorian says, cursing the heat that rises into his cheeks. “Until two seconds ago.”

 

It only earns him more cackling and the way she eyes him makes him tug at the hem of his sleeves as if the potential disarray of his clothes could make this situation even more precarious.

 

“Sera,” Adaar says in a tone that manages to sound both settling and reprimanding all at once.

 

“Alright, alright.” She rolls her eyes and performs the rather impressive act of climbing onto the sill and through the window without knocking over anything on Adaar’s cluttered counter. “Didn’t know it was a big secret or whatever, now did I? With you doing it all out in the open and everything.”

 

“We’re inside,” Dorian says and reaches for his tea cup. There is only a sad cold mouthful left at the bottom but it gives his hands something to do other than fiddling with his clothes.

 

“With the windows open,” she retorts, already busy stealing one or two or seven of Adaar’s ginger cookies for herself.

 

“Which people usually don’t use as entrances, as doors exist. Upon which one could knock if they chose to do so.”

 

She blows a raspberry and proceeds to stuff her mouth with cookies, which Dorian figures is as good an answer as any.

 

“I forgot you were coming by for a delivery,” Adaar confesses. Dorian finds himself minutely pleased that Sera’s spray of crumbs exceeds his own by a wide margin. Possibly because hers is deliberate.

 

“Yeah,” she snorts, mindless of the mess, “I can see why. Been in his fancy pants long?”

 

“You can’t prove they’re fancy,” Dorian scoffs.

 

“That’s not your business, Sera.”

 

“Could be,” she argues, taking a bite of another cookie. “More fun for me if it were.”

 

“You know, I think I miss Cole’s comings and goings,” Dorian says, leaning against the counter. That unsettled, peevish feeling won’t leave, despite… despite everything.

 

But Sera just blows another raspberry at him. “That’s not even funny. Creepy’s not half as fun as me. I’ve got more fun in my little pucker than he’s got in his whole corpsey body. Not that either of you two would know, considering… reasons.” She shoves the cookie in her mouth whole and steals another two from Adaar’s plate. “I’m starvin’, Softie! You want me to die from all this hard work?”

 

“No, Sera,” Adaar says, smiling at Dorian as he rises. Sera cheers around a mouthful when he starts pulling ingredients out of his cupboard.

 

Dorian doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. There's nothing malicious in the way Sera eyes him from where she is sitting - on top of the table, naturally. It's all mischief. But the sinking feeling in his stomach won’t leave him. He feels Adaar watching him from the corner of his eye and suddenly there's a bowl and whisk in front of him.

 

“Could you whisk the eggs?” Adaar asks and squeezes his elbow just lightly. Familiar but not overly so. Dorian finds he’s able to breathe a little calmer and nods.

 

Adaar goes back to grating cheese into a small bowl and to distracting Sera. “So how is Dagna?”

 

It's obviously exactly the right question to ask since Sera immediately delves into a lengthy monologue and forgets all about Dorian and his fancy pants. Most of it doesn’t make sense to Dorian but Adaar makes encouraging noises throughout. “Oh,” she exclaims suddenly, loud enough to make Dorian jump. “Almost forgot. She said to tell you she’s almost done with that thing you wanted. The…” She makes a vague gesture that could potentially mean anything. “You know, the holey bits.”

 

“The filter. I’ll come by for it next week,” Adaar says, and Sera waves him off.

 

“Pff. I’ll just bring it when she’s done. Never know what I might catch you wangers up to in the middle of the day. Cheeky!”

 

The whisk in Dorian’s hand clatters loudly against the side of the bowl.

 

“Sera,” Adaar says, “next time, knock.”

 

Sera sighs, long and weary. “Oh, fine. Dunno what he’s getting all weird about. You’ve seen Widdle and me having loads more fun than making smoochy faces at each other.”

 

“By _accident_.”

 

“Yeah! You’ve _accidentally_ seen my lady sweet’s sweets way more than most boys. ‘Cept Bull. That’s on purpose, though - he makes the funniest faces!” She adopts an exaggerated low timbre and a poor accent. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to look - crappity crap, I shouldn’t apologize, you’re in my crapping house! Crap! Stop breaking in and having amazing sex with your cute Widdle on my really sturdy qunari table! _Ha!_ Oh, get yourself one of those, poncey. Believe me, it’s _worth it._ ”

 

“I’m quite happy with my tables, thank you.” Dorian readjusts his grip on the whisk and picks up his task again, glad to have regained at least some of his composure.

 

“Alright, no need to get so grumpy about it.” Dorian suspects that there are more stern looks exchanged behind his back because Sera sighs once more and that is the end of it - for now.

 

Adaar gently pulls the bowl out of Dorian’s hands before he can reduce the eggs to nothing but foam and proceeds to stir in the cheese before pouring the mass into a heated pan. A few minutes later, he serves Sera an omelette big enough to feed three grown men. She also gulps down what must be half a loaf of bread in just a few bites. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so disturbing.

 

Dorian contents himself with another cup of freshly brewed tea, though he wishes for something stronger.

 

Still, despite his wishful thinking, he’s surprised when Adaar shoos her out not long after she’s eaten. It’s all very cordial, of course; he stuffs a basket with goodies, honey and homemade jam, reminds Sera to knock next time around, gives his love to Dagna, and sees her off at the path like a gentleman.

 

“I didn’t think I’d see the day you encouraged someone _out_ of your home,” Dorian says over what must be his fifth cup of tea, fingertips tapping restlessly against the cup.

 

Adaar hums a thoughtful note, clearing Sera’s amassed crumbs out of the kitchen with a flick of the wrist and a tidy little breeze. “Sera’s friendly, and she prefers to… ignore social cues.”

 

“So you’ve developed a tactic for getting her out the door.”

 

“I’ve never needed it before,” he confesses. “She’s good company, when she wants to be. But you looked uncomfortable, and that might have been more interesting to her than behaving herself without a little incentive.”

 

Dorian feels a little guilty, then. A little. But mostly just relieved. “I see. Well. Thank you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Adaar says suddenly.

 

Dorian blinks. “Whatever for?”

 

“I would never want you to be uncomfortable. If this…” He stops and takes a deep breath. “I’d understand if you wanted to stop this now and not speak of it again.”

 

Oh.

 

Dorian puts his cup down and leaves his spot at the counter. He brushes his fingers against Adaar’s elbow and there's something very nice about the way he turns his body towards him at the slightest touch. “I have no desire to stop,” he says. “This is all very new to me, but I’m sure you’ve gathered as much.”

 

Adaar smiles but the worried look in his eyes doesn’t quite leave.

 

“I kissed you,” Dorian says and moves in a little closer, his free hand finding Adaar’s hip. “And if it’s alright with you I’d like to do it again.”

 

Adaar leans down and kisses him, sweet and gentle and absolutely right. The tight knot in Dorian’s chest loosens a little bit.

 

When the sun has dipped low enough over the trees for Adaar to light his home up with candles, Dorian knows it’s time for him to leave. It’s routine by now, but he can’t help but feel something of a loss when Adaar walks him to the lavender and kisses him goodbye for the first time.

 

“Now, don’t make me late.” Dorian’s reprimand is entirely without legs as he maps Adaar’s jaw out with his fingertips. “I’ll return first thing in the morning.”

 

“Late morning,” Adaar corrects automatically, and kisses him again.

 

Dorian can’t recall the last time he spent a day kissing anyone without at least one pair of hands down his trousers. Now, he’s reciting what might as well be a script with qunari, who takes the opportunity to nuzzle his cheek before he pulls back.

 

At the edge of the woods, Dorian stop and turns around one last time to find Adaar still standing amid the lavender watching him. He’s nothing more than a dark silhouette against the fiery Western sky but Dorian is tempted to run back to him. He settles for one last wave goodbye before he makes his way back home.

 

It would be too much to say that the events of the afternoon put a spring in his step or make the walk up the hill any easier. In truth, he's so lost in thought he hardly notices the ascent at all until he reaches the gate at the edge of the garden. A few of Adaar’s bees fly past him as he takes the path up to the house and he catches himself smiling. Who could have known what he’d find on the other side of the woods when he first followed their trail all these weeks ago? It seems like an age to him, the memory of a world without Adaar in it hazy and far away.

 

The house is just as he left it, as if the whole world hasn’t shifted in the meantime. It’s not Tacitus who greets him at the door but the cook’s daughter, a rare sight indeed outside of the kitchen or the rose garden.

 

“Have you already eaten, messere? Or would you like me to fetch some dinner from the kitchen?” She smiles apologetically. “I’m afraid my mother has already left but I’m sure I can find something suitable for you.”

 

“That’s quite alright. Just some wine - an Antivan red, I think.”

 

“Of course.” She turns to leave but stops at the door. “Oh, a letter arrived for you this afternoon. I believe Tacitus left it in the library for you.”

 

“Thank you. I’ll take the wine in my room.”

 

It must be gossip from Maevaris, he decides, making his way to the library. On the old austere desk by the tall windows opposite the doors, a single envelope rests, seal unbroken.

 

He recognizes the seal, and it is not Mae’s.

 

Of course. Of course it would be on this day of cloud-walking and fanciful notions that his father’s letter would arrive. Entirely overdue, given the extent of his stay, but Dorian supposes the time would be right for the servants’ reports to have been received and responded to.

 

Best get it out of the way now, and drink himself into a stupor later, Dorian decides, and dashes the seal away with a letter opener.

 

It’s a simple unadorned note but the sight of his father’s stark handwriting is enough to make his stomach twist.

 

_Dorian,_

 

_I have received several complaints from your tutors in Cumberland that claim you have abandoned your studies, stolen books from the College library and left the city. Once again, I am left in the position to explain my son’s behavior._

 

_When I agreed to your summer abroad I was under the assumption you would be working on your research before your stay in the Free Marches. This is nothing but a waste of your potential._

 

_You will have the servants pack your things, return the books you've taken from the Cumberland library and return to Minrathous at once. I expect your arrival within the month._

 

The letter is signed with his father’s full name and title as well as with another seal - as though there could be any doubt over the author of these words. They reek of his father, so much so that Dorian almost believes he can hear them spoken in his voice.

 

Anger coils in his stomach as he crumples the paper in one hand. There's something else as well - the old fear, the dreadful sinking feeling of disappointment reaching for him with icy fingers. Just three lines and he’s sick to his stomach.

 

Of course it had to come to this. Did he really think his father would let him have this? Just one sunny day, one good thing?

 

He can still taste Adaar on his lips, can still feel his touch on his skin. Cinnamon and honey and sunshine, he thinks. He can't let his father touch this. He can't let him spoil it.

 

The paper in his hand catches fire at the slightest thought and he tosses it into the cold fireplace before it can burn him. He knows it’s no use. There will be more letters just like this one until his father gets what he wants.

 

But Dorian has let him take enough. He will not give him this.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from Emily Dickinson's poem "The Bee"  
>  _His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune; Oh, for a bee's experience Of clovers and of noon!_  
>  If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [mywordsflyup](http://damnable-rogue.tumblr.com/)'s & [Byacolate's Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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